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'EOl^E  ■  GARY'  EGGLE/TOX' 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/dorothysouthloveOOegglrich 


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DOROTHY 
SOUTH 


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'  VHALL    he    HAi'E    ONE    OF   OUR  OLD-TIME  HORSE- 
O  BACK  RID  EH  '  HOON'  IN  THE  MORNING,  DOROTHY?'' 

[JSee  page  440^ 


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A 


Love  Story  0/  Virginia  Just 
Before  the  War 


By  GEORGE   GARY  EGGLESTON 

Author    of 

"A  Carolina  Cavalibk" 
"Thb  Bale  Marked  Circle  X  " 

*'Camp    Venture" 
•*  The  Last  of  the  Flatboats  " 


ILLUSTRATED     BV 

C.  D.  WILLIAMS 


New  York:  Grosset  &  Dunlap,  Publishers 


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COPYRIGHT, 

190a, 

By    LOTHROP 

PUBLISHING 

COMPANY. 

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ALL    RIGHTS 
RESERVED 

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fHJ^fTHJ^M^ini 

PUBLISHED   MARCH,  1901 

/2fk  THOUSAND,  March  20 
17th  THOUSAND,  May  20 
22d  THOUSAND,  June  28 
2yth  THOUSAND,  July  23 
32d  THOUSAND,  Auq.  20 
37th  THOUSAND,  Nov.  4 
ioth  THOUSAND,  Nov.  8 
42d  THOUSAND,  May  4 


•  •    •  • 


B 

BBWICK 

AND 

Smith 

Printers 

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0  K  W  0  0 

D  , 

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ASS. 

CONTENTS 


lES 

^[HJj^rTiu^iBii^rRr^^M^M^rHii^ 

CHAPTER 

pack: 

I. 

TWO  ENCOUNTERS 

II 

n. 

WYANOKE     

25 

m. 

DR.  ARTHUR  BRENT      .          .          .          .          • 

36> 

IV. 

DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED         .... 

47 

V. 

ARTHUR  brent's  TEMPTATION  . 

62 

VI. 

NOW  YOU  MAY  CALL  ME  DOROTHY 

77 

vn. 

SHRUB  HILL  CHURCH             .... 

91 

VIII. 

A  DINNER  AT  BRANTON         .... 

lOI 

IX. 

Dorothy's  case 

117 

X. 

DOROTHY  volunteers         .... 

135 

XI. 

THE  woman's  AWAKENING 

150- 

XII. 

MAMMY           

IS6 

XIII. 

THE  "  SONG  BALLADS  "  OF  DICK 

166' 

XIV. 

Dorothy's  affairs  .... 

.   i;^ 

XV. 

Dorothy's  choice     .... 

184 

XVI. 

UNDER  THE  CODE           .... 

.   191 

XVII. 

A  REVELATION 

.     I9S^ 

XVIII. 

ALONE  IN  THE  CARRL^GE      . 

.    217 

XIX. 

Dorothy's  master    .... 

:    222 

XX. 

A  SPECIAL  DELIVERY  LETTER       . 

.    230 

XXI. 

HOW   A   HIGH  BRED  DAMSEL   CONFRONTEl 

FATE,  AND  DUTY        .... 

.     237 

XXII. 

THE  INSTITUTION  OF  THE  DUELLO      . 

.    25s 

XXIII. 

Dorothy's  rebellion 

.     263 

XXIV. 

TO  GIVE  DOROTHY  A  CHANCE 

.     270 

XXV. 

AUNT  Polly's  view  of  the  risks    . 

.     286 

XXVI. 

AUNT  Polly's  advice 

.     295 

XXVII. 

Diana's  exaltation  .... 

.    306 

912734 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVIII.  THE  ADVANCING  SHADOW    .  .  .  .     314 

XXIX.  THE  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  DOROTHY  .      322 

XXX.  AT   SEA  ...                    ...      346 

XXXI.  THE  VIEWS  AND  MOODS  OF  ARTHUR  BRENT      363 

XXXII.  THE  SHADOW  FALLS 377 

XXXIIL  "  AT  PARIS  IT  WAS '* 391 

XXXIV.  Dorothy's  discovery      ....    404 

XXXV.  THE  BIRTH  OF  WAR 424 

XXXVI.  THE  OLD  DOROTHY  AND  THE  NEW        .  ,      429 

XXXVII.  AT  WYANOKE 435 

XXXVIII.  SOON  IN  THE  MORNING.        •  •         .  •741 


LIST  of  ILLUSTRATIONS 


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"  Shall  we  have  one  of  our  old-time  horseback 
rides  '  soon  '  in  the  mornings  Dorothy  ?  ** 

(^Frontispiece!) 

"  Who  is  your  Miss  Dorothy  ?" 

{Pa^e  17.) 

"7  wonU  call  you  a  fool  because  the  Bible  says 
I  mustnty 

{Page  178.) 

Dorothy  South, 

{Page  304.) 

"  In  that  music  my  soul  laid  itself  bare  to  yours 
and  prayed  for  your  love. 

{Page  417.) 

'^Aunt  Polly  I  "     he  said  abruptly,  "  /  want 
your  permission  to  marry  Dorothy" 

{Page  452) 


[ij 
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DOROTHY 
SOUTH 

^JTfcU^ITliJ^rrliJ^ITl] 

Dorothy   South 

I 

TWO  ENCOUNTERS 

/T  was  a  perfect  day  of  the  kind  that  Mr. 
Lowell  has  celebrated  in  song — ''  a 
day  in  June."  It  was,  moreover,  a 
day  glorified  even  beyond  Mr.  Lowell's  imag- 
ining, by  the  incomparable  climate  of  south 
side  Virginia. 

A  young  man  of  perhaps  seven  and  twenty, 
came  walking  with  vigor  down  the  narrow 
roadway,  swinging  a  stick  which  he  had  paused 
by  the  wayside  to  cut.  The  road  ran  at  this 
point  through  a  luxuriantly  growing  wood- 
land, with  borders  of  tangled  undergrowth  and 
flowers  on  either  side,  and  with  an  orchestra  of 
bird  performers  all  around.  The  road  was  a 
public  highway,  though  it  would  never  have 
been  taken  for  such  in  any  part  of  the  world 
except  in-  a  south  side  county  of  Virginia  in  the 
late  fifties.     It  was  a  narrow  track,  bearing 

II 


DOROTHY  SOUTH  ) 

few  traces  of  any  heavier  traffic  than  that  of 
the  family  carriages  in  which  the  gentle,  high- 
born dames  and  maidens  of  the  time  and  coun- 
try were  accustomed  to  make  their  social 
rounds. 

There  was  a  gate  across  the  carriage  track 
— a  gate  constructed  in  accordance  with  the 
requirement  of  the  Virginia  law  that  every 
gate  set  up  across  a  public  highway  should  be 
"  easily  opened  by  a  man  on  horseback." 

Near  the  gate  the  young  man  slackened  his 
vigorous  pace  and  sat  down  upon  a  recently 
fallen  tree.  He  remembered  enough  of  his 
boyhood's  experience  in  Virginia  to  choose  a 
green  log  instead  of  a  dry  one  for  his  seat.  He 
had  had  personal  encounters  with  chigoes  years 
ago,  and  wanted  no  more  of  them.  He  sat 
down  not  because  he  was  tired,  for  he  was  not 
in  the  least  so,  but  simply  because,  finding  him- 
self in  the  midst  of  a  refreshingly  and  inspir- 
ingly  beautiful  scene,  he  desired  to  enjoy  it 
for  a  space.  Besides,  he  was  in  no  hurry.  No- 
body was  expecting  him,  and  he  knew  that 
dinner  would  not  be  served  whither  he  was 
going  until  the  hour  of  four — and  it  was  now 
only  a  little  past  nine. 

The  young  man  was  fair  to  look  upon.  A 
trifle  above  the  medium  height,  his  person  was 

12 


TWO  ENCOUNTERS 

symmetrical  and  his  finely  formed  head  wa% 
carried  with  an  ease  and  grace  that  suggested 
the  reserve  strength  of  a  young  bull.  His  fea- 
tures were  about  equally  marked  by  vigor  and 
refinement.  His  was  the  countenance  of  a  man 
well  bred,  who,  to  his  inheritance  of  good  breed- 
ing had  added  education  and  such  culture  as 
books,  and  earnest  thinking,  and  a  favorable 
association  with  men  of  intellect  are  apt  to 
bring  to  one  worthy  to  receive  the  gift. 

He  seemed  to  know  the  spot  wherein  he 
lingered.  Indeed  he  had  asked  no  questions 
as  to  his  way  when  less  than  an  hour  ago  he 
had  alighted  from  the  pottering  train  at  the 
village  known  as  the  Court  House.  He  had 
said  to  the  old  station  agent,  "  I  will  send  for 
my  baggage  later."  Then  he  had  set  off  at  a 
brisk  walk  down  one  of  the  many  roads  that 
converged  at  this  centre  of  county  life  and  af- 
fairs. The  old  station  master,  looking  after 
him,  had  muttered :  "  He  seems  to  think  he 
knows  his  way.  Mebbe  he  does,  but  anyhow 
he's  a  stranger  in  these  parts." 

And  indeed  that  would  have  been  the  instant 
conclusion  of  any  one  who  should  have  looked 
at  him  as  he  sat  there  by  the  roadside  enjoy- 
ing the  sweet  freshness  of  the  morning,  and 
the  exquisite  abandon  with  which  exuberant 

»3 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

nature  seemed  to  mock  at  the  little  track  made 
through  the  tangled  woodlands  by  intrusive 
man.  The  youth's  garb  betrayed  him  instantly. 
In  a  country  where  black  broadcloth  was  then 
the  universal  wear  of  gentlemen,  our  young 
gentleman  was  clad  in  loosely  fitting  but  per- 
fectly shaped  white  flannels,  the  trousers 
slightly  turned  up  to  avoid  the  soil  of  travel, 
the  short  sack  coat  thrown  open,  and  the  full 
bosomed  shirt  front  of  bishop's  lawn  or  some 
other  such  sheer  stuff,  being  completely  with- 
out a  covering  of  vest.  Obviously  the  young 
pedestrian  did  not  belong  to  that  part  of  the 
world  which  he  seemed  to  be  so  greatly  enjoy- 
ing. 

That  is  what  Dick  thought,  when  Dick  rode 
up  to  the  gate.  Dick  was  a  negro  boy  of  four- 
teen summers  or  about  that.  His  face  was  a 
bright,  intelligent  one,  and  he  looked  a  good 
deal  of  the  coming  athlete  as  he  sat  barebacked 
upon  the  large  roan  that  served  him  for  steed. 
Dick  wore  a  shirt  and  trousers,  and  nothing 
else,  except  a  dilapidated  straw  hat  which  im- 
perfectly covered  his  closely  cropped  wool.  His 
feet  were  bare,  but  the  young  man  made  men- 
tal note  of  the  fact  that  they  bore  the  appear- 
ance of  feet  accustomed  to  be  washed  at  least 
once  in  every  twenty  four  hours. 

14 


TWO  ENCOUNTERS 

"  Does  your  mammy  make  you  wash  your 
feet  every  night,  or  do  you  do  it  of  your  own 
accord  ?  "  The  question  was  the  young  man's 
rather  informal  beginning  of  a  conversation. 

"  Mammy  makes  me,"  answered  the  boy, 
with  a  look  of  resentment  in  his  face. 
"  Mammy's  crazy  about  washin*.  She  makes 
me  git  inter  a  bar'l  o'  suds  ev'ry  night  an' 
scrub  myself  like  I  was  a  floor.  That's  cause 
she's  de  head  washerwoman  at  Wyanoke. 
She's  got  washin'  on  de  brain." 

"  So  you're  one  of  the  Wyanoke  people,  are 
you?    Whom  do  you  belong  to  now?  " 

"  I   don't  jes'   rightly  know,   Mahstah  " — 

Dick  sounded  his  a's  like  "  aw  "  in  "  claw." 

''  I   don't  jes'   rightly  know,    Mahstah.     Ole 

Mas'r  he's  done  daid,  an'  de  folks  sez  a  young 

Yankee  mahstah  is  a  comin'  to  take  position." 

"  To  take  possession,  you  mean,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  dunno.    Somefin  o'  dat  sort." 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  a  Yankee  master  ?  " 

"  O  'cause  he  libs  at  de  Norf  somewhar.    I 

reckon  mebbe  he  ain't  quite  so  bad  as  dat.    Dey 

say  he  was  born  in  Ferginny,  but  I  reckon  he's 

done  lib  in  de  Norf  among  the  Yankees  so  long 

dat  he's  done  forgit  his  manners  an'  his  raisin." 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  asked    the    young 

man,  seemingly  interested  in  Dick. 

15 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  My  name's  Dick,  Sah." 

*'Dicksah— or  Dick?" 

"  Jes'  Dick,  so,"  answered  the  boy. 

"  Oh !  Well,  that's  a  very  good  name.  It's 
short  and  easy  to  say." 

"  Too  easy !  "  said  the  boy. 

"  *  Too  easy  ? '  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  queried 
the  young  man. 

"  Oh,  nuffin',  only  it's  alius  *  Dick,  do  dis!' 
*  Dick  do  dat.'  '  Dick  go  dar,'  '  Dick  come 
heah,'  an'  '  Dick,  Dick,  Dick  '  all  de  day  long." 

"  Then  they  work  you  pretty  hard  do  they? 
You  don't  look  emaciated." 

"  Maishy  what,  Mahstah?  " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that.  It's  a  Chinese  word 
that  I  was  just  saying  to  myself.  Do  they 
work  you  too  hard  ?    What  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  do  nuffin'  much.  Only  when 
I  lays  down  in  de  sun  an'  jes'  begins  to  git 
quiet  like,  Miss  Polly  she  calls  me  to  pick  some 
peas  in  de  gyahden,  er  Miss  Dorothy  she  says, 
'  Dick,  come  heah  an'  help  me  range  dese  flow- 
ers,' or  Mammy,  she  says,  '  Dick,  you  lazy 
bones,  come  heah  an'  put  some  wood  under  my 
wash  biler.' " 

"But  what  is  your  regular  work?" 

"  Reg'lar  wuk  ?  "  asked  the  boy,  his  eyes 
growing  saucer-like  in  astonishment,  "  I  ain't 

i6 


ft-  N 

§1 


TWO  ENCOUNTERS 

got  no  reg'lar  wuk.  I  feeds  dc  chickens,  some- 
times, and  fin's  hens'  nests  an'  min's  chillun, 
an'  dribes  de  tukkeys  into  de  tobacco  lots  to  eat 
de  grasshoppers  an'  I  goes  aftah  de  mail. 
Dat's  what  I'se  a  doin*  now.  Leastways  I'se 
a  comin'  back  wid  de  mail  wot  I  done  been  an' 
gone  after." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Dat's  nuff,  ain't  it,  Mahstah?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  wonder  what  your  new 
master  will  think  when  he  comes." 

**  Golly,  so  do  I.  Anyhow,  he's  a  Yankee, 
an'  he  won't  know  how  much  wuk  a  nigga 
ought  to  do.  I'll  be  his  pussonal  servant,  I 
reckon.  Leastways  dat's  what  Miss  Dorothy 
say  she  tink." 

"  Who  is  your  Miss  Dorothy  ?  "  the  young 
man  asked  with  badly  simulated  indifference, 
for  this  was  a  member  of  the  Wyanoke  family 
of  whom  Dr.  Arthur  Brent  had  never  before 
heard. 

"  Miss  Dorothy  ?  Why,  she's  jes'  Miss  Dor- 
othy, so." 

"  But  what's  her  other  name?  " 

"  I  dunno.  I  reckon  she  ain't  got  no  other 
name.     Leastways  I  dunno." 

"  Is  Wyanoke  a  fine  plantation  ?  " 

"  Fine,  Mahstah  ?    It's  de  very  finest  dey  is. 

17 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

It's  all  out  o-doors  and  I  reckon  dey's  a  thou- 
sand cullud  people  on  it." 

"  Oh,  hardly  that,"  answered  the  young  man 
— "  say  eight  or  nine  hundred — or  perhaps  one 
hundred  would  be  nearer  the  mark." 

"  No,  Sir!  De  Brents  is  quality  folks, 
Mahstah.  Dey's  got  more'n  a  thousan'  nig- 
gas,  an'  two  or  three  thousan'  horses,  an'  as  fer 
cows  an'  hawgs  you  jes'  cawn't  count  'em! 
Dey  eats  dinner  offen  chaney  plates  every  day 
an'  de  forks  at  Wyanoke  is  all  gold." 

"  How  many  carriages  do  they  keep,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Sebenteen,  besides  de  barouche  an'  de  car- 
ryall." 

'*  Well,  now  you'd  better  be  moving  on. 
Your  Miss  Polly  and  your  Miss  Dorothy  may 
be  waiting  for  their  letters." 

As  the  boy  rode  away.  Dr.  Arthur  Brent 
resumed  his  brisk  walk.  He  no  longer  con- 
cerned himself  with  the  landscape,  or  the 
woods,  or  the  wild  flowers,  or  the  beauty  of 
the  June  morning,  or  anything  else.  He  was 
thinking,  and  not  to  much  purpose. 

"  Who  the  deuce,"  he  muttered,  "  can  this 
Miss  Dorothy  be?  Of  course  I  remember  dear 
old  Aunt  Polly.  She  has  always  lived  at  Wy- 
anoke. But  who  is  Dorothy?  As  my  uncle 
wasn't  married  of  course  he  had  no  daughter. 

i8 


TWO  ENCOUNTERS 

And  besides,  if  he  had,  she  would  be  his  heir, 
and  I  should  never  have  inherited  the  property 
at  all.  I  wonder  if  1  have  inherited  a  family, 
with  the  land?  Psha!  Dick  invented  Miss 
Dorothy,  of  course.  Why  didn't  I  think  of 
that?  I  remember  my  last  stay  of  a  year  at 
Wyanoke,  and  everything  about  the  place. 
There  was  no  Dorothy  there  then,  and  pretty 
certainly  there  is  none  now.  Dick  invented  her, 
just  as  he  invented  the  gold  forks,  and  the 
thousand  negroes,  and  all  those  multitudinous 
horses,  carriages,  cows  and  hogs.  That  black 
rascal  has  a  creative  genius — a  trifle  ill  regu- 
lated perhaps,  but  richly  productive.  It  failed 
him  for  the  moment  when  I  demanded  a  sec- 
ond name  for  Dorothy.  But  if  I  had  persisted 
in  that  line  of  inquiry  he  would  pretty  cer- 
tainly have  endowed  the  girl  with  a  string  of 
surnames  as  completely  fictitious  as  the  woman 
herself  is.  I'll  have  some  fun  out  of  that  boy. 
He  has  distinct  psychological  possibilities." 

Continuing  his  walk  in  leisurely  fashion  like 
one  whose  mind  is  busy  with  reflection,  Dr. 
Arthur  Brent  came  at  last  to  a  great  gate  at 
the  side  of  the  road — a  gate  supported  by  two 
large  pillars  of  hewn  stone,  and  flanked  by  a 
smaller  gate  intended  for  the  use  of  foot  farers 
like  himself. 

^9 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  That's  the  entrance  gate  to  the  plantation/' 
he  reflected.  "I  had  thought  it  half  a  mile 
farther  on.  Memory  has  been  playing  me  its 
usual  trick  of  exaggerating  everything  remem- 
bered from  boyhood.  I  was  only  fifteen  or 
sixteen  when  I  was  last  at  Wyanoke,  and  the 
road  seems  shorter  now  than  it  did  then.  But 
this  is  surely  the  gate." 

Passing  through  the  wicket,  he  presently 
found  himself  in  a  forest  of  young  hickory 
trees.  He  remembered  these  as  having  been 
scarcely  higher  than  the  head  of  a  man  on 
horseback  at  the  time  of  his  last  visit.  They 
had  been  planted  by  his  uncle  to  beautify  the 
front  entrance  to  the  plantation,  and,  with  care- 
ful foresting  they  had  abundantly  fulfilled  that 
purpose.  Growing  rather  thickly,  they  had 
risen  to  a  height  of  nearly  fifty  feet,  and  their 
boles  had  swelled  to  a  thickness  of  eight  or  ten 
inches,  while  all  undergrowth  of  every  kind 
had  been  carefully  suppressed.  The  tract  of 
land  thus  timbered  by  cultivation  to  replace  the 
original  pine  forest,  embraced  perhaps  seventy- 
five  or  a  hundred  acres,  and  the  effect  of  it  in 
a  country  where  forest  growths  were  usually 
permitted  to  lead  riotous  lives  of  their  own, 
was  impressive. 

As  the  young  man  turned  one  of  the  curves 

20 


TWO  ENCOUNTERS 

of  the  winding  carriage  road,  four  great 
hounds  caught  sight  of  him  and  instantly  set 
upon  him.  At  that  moment  a  young  girl, 
perched  upon  a  tall  chestnut  mare  galloped  into 
view.  Thrusting  two  fingers  of  her  right  hand 
into  her  mouth,  she  whistled  shrilly  between 
them,  thrice  repeating  the  searching  sound.  In- 
stantly the  huge  hounds  cowered  and  slunk 
away  to  the  side  of  the  girl's  horse.  Their  evi- 
dent purpose  was  to  go  to  heel  at  once,  but 
their  mistress  had  no  mind  for  that. 

"  Here  1  *'  she  cried.  "Sit  up  on  your 
haunches  and  take  your  punishment.*' 

The  dogs  obediently  took  the  position  of 
humble  suppliants,  and  the  girl  dealt  to  each,  a 
sharp  cut  with  the  flexible  whip  she  carried 
slung  to  her  pommel.  "  Now  go  to  heel,  you 
naughty  fellows !  "  she  commanded,  and  with  a 
stately  inclination  of  her  body  she  swept  past 
the  young  man,  not  deigning  even  to  glance  in 
his  direction. 

"By  Jove!*'  exclaimed  Dr.  Brent,  "that 
was  done  as  a  young  queen  might  have  man- 
aged it.  She  saved  my  life,  punished  her 
hounds  to  secure  their  future  obedience,  and 
barely  recognizing  my  existence — doing  even 
that  for  her  own  sake,  not  mine — galloped 
away  as  if  this  superb  day  belonged  to  her! 

21 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

And  she  isn't  a  day  over  fifteen  either."  In 
that  Dr.  Brent  was  mistaken.  The  girl  had 
passed  her  sixteenth  birthday,  three  months 
ago.  "  I  doubt  if  she  is  half  as  long  as  that 
graceful  riding  habit  she  is  wearing."  Then 
after  a  moment  he  said,  still  talking  to  himself, 
"  I'll  wager  something  handsome  that  that  girl 
is  as  shy  as  a  fawn.  They  always  are  shy  when 
they  behave  in  that  queenly,  commanding  way. 
The  shyer  they  are  the  more  they  affect  a  stately 
demeanor." 

Dr.  Arthur  Brent  was  a  man  of  a  scientific 
habit  of  mind.  To  him  everything  and  every- 
body was  apt  to  assume  somewhat  the  char- 
acter of  a  "  specimen."  He  observed  minutely 
and  generalized  boldly,  even  when  his  "sub- 
ject" happened  to  be  a  young  woman  or,  as  in 
this  case,  a  slip  of  a  girl.  All  facts  were  in- 
teresting to  him,  whether  facts  of  nature  or 
facts  of  human  nature.  He  was  just  now  as 
earnest  in  his  speculations  concerning  the  girl 
he  had  so  oddly  encountered,  as  if  she  had  been 
a  new  chemical  reaction. 

Seating  himself  by  the  roadside  he  tried  to 
recall  all  the  facts  concerning  her  that  his  hasty 
glance  had  enabled  him  to  observe. 

"  If  I  were  an  untrained  observer,"  he  re- 
flected, "  I  should  argue  from  her  stately  dig- 

22 


TWO  ENCOUNTERS 

nity  and  the  reserve  with  which  she  treated  me 
— she  being  only  an  unsophisticated  young  girl 
who  has  not  lived  long  enough  to  '  adopt '  a 
manner  with  malice  aforethought — I  should 
argue  from  her  manner  that  she  is  a  girl  highly 
bred,  the  daughter  of  some  blue  blooded  Vir- 
ginia family,  trained  from  infancy  by  grand 
dames,  her  aunts  and  that  sort  of  thing,  in  the 
fine  art  of  '  deportment/  But  as  I  am  not  an 
untrained  observer,  I  recall  the  fact  that  stage 
queens  do  that  sort  of  thing  superbly,  even 
when  their  mothers  are  washerwomen,  and 
they  themselves  prefer  corned  beef  and  cab- 
bage to  truffled  game.  Still  as  there  are  no 
specimens  of  that  kind  down  here  in  Virginia, 
I  am  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  this  young 
Diana  is  simply  the  highly  bred  and  carefully 
dame-nurtured  daughter  of  one  of  the  great 
plantation  owners  hereabouts,  whose  manner 
has  acquired  an  extra  stateliness  from  her  em- 
barrassment and  shyness.  Girls  of  fifteen  or 
sixteen  don't  know  exactly  where  they  stand. 
They  are  neither  little  girls  nor  young  women. 
They  have  outgrown  the  license  of  the  one 
state  without  having  as  yet  acquired  the  liberty 
of  action  that  belongs  to  the  other.'*  Thus  the 
youth's  thoughts  wandered  on.  "  That  girl  is 
a  rigid  disciplinarian,"  he  reflected.     *'  How 

23 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

sternly  she  required  those  hounds  to  sit  on  their 
haunches  and  take  the  punishment  due  to  their 
sins !  ril  be  bound  she  has  herself  been  set  in 
a  corner  for  many  a  childish  naughtiness.  Yet 
she  is  not  cruel.  She  struck  each  dog  only  a 
single  blow — ^just  punishment  enough  to  secure 
better  manners  in  future.  An  ill  tempered 
woman  would  have  lashed  them  more  severely. 
And  a  woman  less  self -controlled  would  have 
struck  out  with  her  whip  without  making  the 
dogs  sit  up  and  realize  the  enormity  of  their 
offence.  A  less  well-bred  girl  would  have  said 
something  to  me  in  apology  for  her  hounds' 
misbehavior.  This  one  was  sufficiently  sensible 
to  see  that  unless  I  were  a  fool — in  which  case 
I  should  have  been  unworthy  of  attention — her 
disciplining  of  the  dogs  was  apology  enough 
without  supplementary  speech.  I  must  find  out 
who  she  is  and  make  her  acquaintance." 

Then  a  sudden  thought  struck  him ;  "  By 
Jove ! "  he  exclaimed  aloud,  "  I  wonder  if  her 
name  is  Dorothy !  " 

Then  the  young  man  walked  oil 


«4 


II 


WYANOKE 

X"  JTALF  an  hour  later  Arthur  Brent  en- 
m  m  tered  the  house  grounds  of  Wyan- 
JL  jL  oke — the  home  of  his  ancestors  for 
generations  past  and  his  own  birthplace.  The 
grounds  about  the  mansion  were  not  very  large 
— two  acres  in  extent  perhaps — set  with  giant 
locust  trees  that  had  grown  for  a  century  or 
more  in  their  comfortable  surrounding  of 
closely  clipped  and  luxuriant  green  sward. 
Only  three  trees  other  than  the  stately  locusts, 
adorned  the  house  grounds.  One  of  these  was 
a  huge  elm,  four  feet  thick  in  its  stem,  with 
great  limbs,  branching  out  in  every  direction 
and  covering,  altogether,  a  space  of  nearly  a 
quarter  acre  of  ground,  but  so  high  from  the 
earth  that  the  carpet  of  green  sward  grew  in 
full  luxuriance  to  the  very  roots  of  the  stupen- 
dous tree.  How  long  that  aboriginal  monarch 
had  been  luxuriating  there,  the  memory  of  man 
could  make  no  report.  The  Wyanoke  planta- 
tion book,  with  its  curiously  minute  record  of 

*5 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

everything  that  pertained  to  the  family  do- 
main, set  forth  the  fact  that  the  "  new  mansion 
house  " — the  one  still  in  use, — was  built  in  the 
year  171 1,  and  that  its  southeasterly  corner 
stood  "  two  hundred  and  thirty  nine  feet  due 
northwest  of  the  Great  Elm  which  adorns  the 
lawn."  A  little  later  than  the  time  of  Arthur 
Brent's  return,  that  young  man  of  a  scientific 
mental  habit,  made  a  survey  to  determine 
whether  or  not  the  Great  Elm  of  1859  was  cer- 
tainly the  same  that  had  been  named  *'  the 
Great  Elm  "in  171 1.  Finding  it  so  he  reckoned 
that  the  tree  must  be  many  hundreds — perhaps 
even  a  thousand  years  of  age.  For  the  elm  is 
one  of  the  very  slowest  growing  of  trees,  and 
Arthur  Brent's  measurements  showed  that  the 
diameter  of  this  one  had  increased  not  more 
than  six  inches  during  the  century  and  a  half 
since  it  had  been  accepted  as  a  conspicuous 
landmark  for  descriptive  use  in  the  plantation 
book. 

The  other  trees  that  asked  of  the  huge  locusts 
a  license  to  live  upon  that  lawn,  were  two 
quick-growing  Asiatic  mulberries,  planted  in 
comparatively  recent  times  to  afford  shade  to 
the  front  porch. 

The  house  was  built  of  wood,  heavily  framed, 
large  roomed  and  gambrel  roofed.     Near  it 

26 


WYANOKE 

stood  the  detached  kitchen  in  the  edge  of  the 
apple  orchard,  and  farther  away  the  quarters 
of  the  house  servants. 

As  Arthur  Brent  strolled  up  the  walk  that 
led  to  the  broad  front  doors  of  the  mansion  his 
mind  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  peace.  That 
was  the  dominant  note  of  the  house  and  all  of 
its  surroundings.  The  great,  self-confident  lo- 
cust trees  that  had  stood  still  in  their  places 
while  generations  of  Brents  had  come  and  gone, 
seemed  to  counsel  rest  as  the  true  philosophy 
of  life.  The  house  itself  seemed  to  invite  re- 
pose. Even  the  stately  peacock  that  strolled  in 
leisurely  laziness  beneath  the  great  elm  seemed, 
in  his  very  being,  a  protest  against  all  haste,  all 
worry,  all  ambition  of  action  and  change. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  thought  the  young  man, 
as  he  contemplated  the  immeasurably  restful 
scene,  "  what  the  name  Wyanoke  signifies  in 
the  Indian  tongue  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 
But  surely  it  ought  to  mean  rest,  contentment, 
calm." 

That  thought,  and  the  inspiration  of  it,  were 
destined  to  play  their  part  as  determinative  in- 
fluences in  the  life  of  the  young  man  whose 
mihd  was  thus  impressed.  There  lay  before 
him,  though  he  was  unconscious  of  the  fact, 
a  life  struggle  between  stem  conviction  and 

27 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

sweet  inclination,  between  duty  and  impulse, 
between  intensity  of  mind  and  lassitude  of  soul. 
There  were  other  factors  to  complicate  the 
problem,  but  these  were  its  chief  terms,  and  it 
is  the  purpose  of  this  chronicle  to  show  in  what 
fashion  the  matter  was  wrought  out. 

Advancing  to  the  porch,  Arthur  rapped 
thrice  with  the  stick  that  he  carried.  That  was 
because  he  had  passed  the  major  part  of  his  life 
elsewhere  than  in  Virginia.  If  such  had  not 
been  the  case  he  would  have  interpreted  the 
meaning  of  the  broad  open  doors  aright,  and 
would  have  walked  in  without  any  knocking 
at  all. 

As  it  was,  Johnny,  the  "  head  dining  room 
servant,"  as  he  was  called  in  Virginia — the 
butler,  as  he  would  have  been  called  elsewhere 
— heard  the  unaccustomed  sound  of  knocking, 
and  went  to  the  door  to  discover  what  it  might 
mean.  To  him  Arthur  handed  a  visiting  card, 
and  said  simply:  "Your  Miss  Polly." 

The  comely  and  intelligent  serving  man  was 
puzzled  by  the  card.  He  had  not  the  slightest 
notion  of  its  use  or  purpose.  In  his  bewilder- 
ment he  decided  that  the  only  thing  to  be  done 
with  it  was  to  take  it  to  his  "  Miss  Polly," 
which,  of  course,  was  precisely  what  Arthur 
Brent  desired  him  to  do.    There  was  probably 

28 


fFTANOKE 

not  another  visiting  card  in  all  that  country 
side — for  the  Virginians  of  that  time  used  few 
formalities,  and  very  simple  ones  in  their  social 
intercourse.  They  went  to  visit  their  friends, 
not  to  "  call  '*  upon  them.  Pasteboard  polite- 
ness was  a  factor  wholly  unknown  in  their 
lives. 

Miss  Polly  happened  to  be  at  that  moment 
in  the  garden  directing  old  Michael, — the  most 
obstinately  obstructive  and  wilful  of  gardeners, 
— to  do  something  to  the  peas  that  he  was  reso- 
lutely determined  not  to  do,  and  to  leave  some- 
thing undone  to  the  tomatoes  which  he  was 
bent  upon  doing.  On  receipt  of  the  card,  she 
left  Michael  to  his  own  devices,  and  almost 
hurried  to  the  house.  "  Almost  hurried,"  I 
say,  for  Miss  Polly  was  much  too  stately  and 
dignified  a  person  to  quicken  a  footstep  upon 
any  occasion. 

She  was  "  Miss  Polly  "  to  the  negro  servants. 
To  everybody  else  she  was  "  Cousin  Polly," 
or  "  Aunt  Polly,"  and  she  had  been  that  from 
the  period  described  by  the  old  law  writers  as 
"  the  time  whereof  the  memory  of  man  runneth 
not  to  the  contrary."  How  old  she  was,  no- 
body knew.  She  looked  elderly  in  a  comfort- 
able, vigorous  way.  Gray  hair  was  at  that  time 
mistakenly  regarded  as  a  reproach  to  women— 

29 


VOROTHr  SOUTH 

a  sign  of  advancing  age  which  must  be  con- 
cealed at  all  costs.  Therefore  Aunt  Polly's 
white  locks  were  kept  closely  shaven,  and  cov- 
ered with  a  richly  brown  wig.  For  the  rest, 
she  was  a  plump  person  of  large  proportions, 
though  not  in  the  least  corpulent.  Her  dignity 
was  such  as  became  her  age  and  her  lineage — 
which  latter  was  of  the  very  best.  She  knew 
her  own  value,  and  respected,  without  aggres- 
sively asserting  it.  She  had  never  been  mar- 
ried-*-unquestionably  for  reasons  of  her  own 
— ^but  her  single  state  had  brought  with  it  no 
tAce  or  tinge  of  bitterness,  no  suggestion  of 
discontent.  She  was,  and  had  always  been,  a 
woman  in  perfect  health  of  mind  and  body,  and 
the  fact  was  apparent  to  all  who  came  into  her 
comfortable  presence. 

She  had  a  small  but  sufficient  income  of  her 
own,  but,  being  an  "  unattached  female  " — as 
the  phrase  went  at  a  time  when  people  were  too 
polite  to  name  a  woman  an  "  old  maid," — she 
had  lived  since  early  womanhood  at  Wyanoke ; 
and  since  the  late  bachelor  owner  of  the  estate, 
Arthur  Brent's  uncle,  had  come  into  the  in- 
heritance, she  had  been  mistress  of  the  mansion, 
ruling  there  with  an  iron  rod  of  perfect  cleanli- 
ness and  scrupulous  neatness,  according  to 
housekeeping  standards  from  which  she  would 

30 


IVYANOKE 

abate  no  jot  or  tittle  upon  any  conceivable  ac- 
count. Fortunately  for  her  servitors,  there 
were  about  seven  of  them  to  every  one  that  was 
reasonably  necessary. 

She  was  a  woman  of  high  intelligence  and 
of  a  pronounced  wit, — a  wit  that  sometimes 
took  humorous  liberties  with  the  proprieties,  to 
the  embarrassment  of  sensitive  young  people. 
She  was  well  read  and  well  informed,  but  she 
never  did  believe  that  the  world  was  round, 
her  argument  being  that  if  such  were  the  case 
she  would  be  standing  on  her  head  half  the 
time.  She  also  refused  to  believe  in  railroads. 
She  was  confident  that  "  the  Yankees  "  had 
built  railroads  through  Virginia,  with  a  far 
seeing  purpose  of  overrunning  and  conquering 
that  state  and  possessing  themselves  of  its  plan- 
tations. Finally,  she  regarded  Virginia  as  the 
only  state  or  country  in  the  world  in  which  a 
person  of  taste  and  discretion  could  consent  to 
be  born.  Her  attitude  toward  all  dwellers  be- 
yond the  borders  of  Virginia,  closely  resembled 
that  of  the  Greeks  toward  those  whom  they 
self  assertively  classed  as  "  the  barbarians." 
How  far  she  really  cherished  these  views,  or 
how  far  it  was  merely  her  humor  to  assert 
them,  nobody  ever  found  out.  To  all  this  she 
added  the  sweetest  temper  and  the  most  unself' 

31 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

ish  devotion  to  those  about  her,  that  it  is  pos- 
sible to  imagine.  She  was  very  distantly  akin 
to  Arthur,  if  indeed  she  was  akin  to  him  at  all. 
But  in  his  childhood  he  had  learned  to  call  her 
"  Aunt  Polly,"  and  during  that  year  of  his 
boyhood  which  he  had  spent  at  Wyanoke,  he 
had  known  her  by  no  other  title.  So  when  she 
came  through  the  rear  doors  to  meet  him  in 
the  great  hall  which  ran  through  the  house  from 
front  to  rear,  he  advanced  eagerly  and  lovingly 
to  greet  her  as  "  Aunt  Polly." 

The  first  welcome  over,  Aunt  Polly  became 
deeply  concerned  over  the  fact  that  Arthur 
Brent  had  walked  the  five  or  six  miles  that  lay 
between  the  Court  House  and  Wyanoke. 

"  Why  didn't  you  get  a  horse,  Arthur,  or 
better  still  why  didn't  you  send  me  word  that 
you  were  coming?  I  would  have  sent  the  car- 
riage for  you." 

"  Which  one,  Aunt  Polly?  " 

"Why,  there's  only  one,  of  course." 

"  Why,  I  was  credibly  informed  this  morn- 
ing that  there  were  seventeen  carriages  here  be- 
sides the  barouche  and  the  carryall." 

"  Who  could  have  told  you  such  a  thing  as 
that  ?  And  then  to  think  of  anybody  accusing 
Wyanoke  of  a  '  carryall ! '  " 

"How  do  you  mean,  Aunt  Polly?" 

3* 


WTANOKE 

"  Why,  no  gentleman  keeps  a  carryall.  I 
believe  Moses  the  storekeeper  at  the  Court 
House  has  one,  but  then  he  has  nine  children 
and  needs  it.    Besides  he  doesn't  count." 

"Why  not.  Aunt  Polly?  Isn't  he  a  man 
like  the  rest  of  us?  " 

"  A  man  ?  Yes,  but  like  the  rest  of  us — ^no. 
He  isn't  a  gentleman." 

"Does  he  misbehave  very  grossly?" 

"  Oh,  no.  He  is  an  excellent  man  I  believe, 
and  his  children  are  as  pretty  as  angels;  but, 
Arthur,  he  keeps  a  store" 

Aunt  Polly  laid  a  stress  upon  the  final  phrase 
as  if  that  settled  the  matter  beyond  even  the 
possibility  of  further  discussion. 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  "  asked  the  young  man 
with  a  smile.  "  In  Virginia  no  man  keeps  a 
carryall  unless  he  is  sufficiently  depraved  to 
keep  a  store  also.  But  I  wonder  why  Dick  told 
me  we  had  a  carryall  at  Wyanoke  besides  the 
seventeen  carriages." 

"  Oh,  you  saw  Dick,  then  ?  Why  didn't  you 
take  his  horse  and  make  him  get  you  a  saddle 
somewhere?  By  the  way,  Dick  had  an  adven- 
ture this  morning.  Out  by  the  Garland  gate 
he  was  waylaid  by  a  man  dressed  all  in  white 
'  jes*  like  a  ghos','  Dick  says,  with  a  sword  and 
two  pistols.    The  fellow  tried  to  take  the  mail 

33 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

bag  away  from  him,  but  Dick,  who  is  quick- 
witted, struck  him  suddenly,  made  his  horse 
jump  the  gate,  and  galloped  away." 

"  Aunt  Polly,"  said  the  young  man  with  a 
quizzical  look  on  his  face,  "  would  you  mind 
sending  for  Dick  to  come  to  me  ?  I  very  much 
want  to  hear  his  story  at  first  hands,  for  now 
that  I  am  to  be  master  of  Wyanoke,  I  don't 
intend  to  tolerate  footpads  and  mail  robbers 
in  the  neighborhood.  Please  send  for  Dick. 
I  want  to  talk  with  him." 

Aunt  Polly  sent,  but  Dick  was  nowhere  to 
be  found  for  a  time.  When  at  last  he  was  dis- 
covered in  a  fodder  loft,  and  dragged  unwill- 
ingly into  his  new  master's  presence,  the  look 
of  consternation  on  his  face  was  so  pitiable 
that  Arthur  Brent  decided  not  to  torture  him 
quite  so  severely  as  he  had  intended. 

"  Dick,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  get  me 
some  cherries,  will  you  ?  " 

"  'Course  I  will,  Mahstah,"  answered  the 
boy,  eagerly  and  turning  to  escape. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Dick.  I  want  you  to  bring 
me  the  cherries  on  a  china  plate,  and  give  me 
one  of  the  gold  forks  to  eat  them  with.  Then 
go  to  the  carriage-house  and  have  all  seventeen 
of  my  carriages  brought  up  here  for  me  to  look 
at.     Tell  the  hostlers  to  send  me  one  or  two 

34 


WTANOKE 

hundred  of  the  horses,  too.  There!  Go  and 
do  as  I  tell  you/' 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Arthur?" 
asked  Aunt  Polly,  who  never  had  quite  imder- 
stood  the  whimsical  ways  of  the  young  man, 
"  I  tell  you  there  is  only  one  carriage — " 

"  Never  mind,  Aunt  Polly.  Dick  under- 
stands me.  He  and  I  had  an  interview  out 
there  by  the  Garland  gate  this  morning.  Mail 
robbers  will  not  trouble  him  again,  I  fancy, 
now  that  his  *  Yankee  Master  '  is  *  in  position,' 
as  he  puts  it.  But  please,  Aunt  Polly,  send 
some  one  with  a  wagon  to  the  Court  House 
after  my  tnmks." 


35 


Ill 

DR.  ARTHUR  BRENT 

^RTHUR  BRENT  had  been  bom  at 
Am  Wyanoke,  twenty  seven  years  or  so 
-^-^  before  the  time  of  our  story.  His 
father,  one  of  a  pair  of  brothers,  was  a  man 
imbued  with  the  convictions  of  the  Revolution- 
ary period — the  convictions  that  prompted  the 
Virginians  of  that  time  to  regard  slavery  as 
an  inherited  curse  to  be  got  rid  of  in  the  speedi- 
est possible  way  compatible  with  the  public 
welfare.  There  were  still  many  such  Virgin- 
ians at  that  time.  They  were  men  who  knew 
the  history  of  their  state  and  respected  the 
teachings  of  the  fathers.  They  remembered 
how  earnestly  Thomas  Jefferson  had  insisted 
upon  writing  into  Virginia's  deed  of  cession  of 
the  North  West  Territory,  a  clause  forever  pro- 
hibiting slavery  in  all  the  fair  "  Ohio  Country  " 
— ^now  constituting  Indiana,  Illinois  and  the 
other  great  states  of  the  Middle  West.  They 
held  in  honor,  as  their  fathers  before  them  had 

36 


DR.  ARTHUR  BRENT 

done,  the  memory  of  Chancellor  George  Wythe, 
who  had  well-nigh  impoverished  himself  in 
freeing  the  negroes  he  had  inherited  and  giv- 
ing them  a  little  start  in  the  world.  They  were 
the  men  to  whom  Henry  Clay  made  confident 
appeal  in  that  effort  to  secure  the  gradual  ex- 
tirpation of  the  system  which  was  the  first  and 
was  repeated  as  very  nearly  the  last  of  his 
labors  of  statesmanship. 

These  men  had  no  sympathy  or  tolerance  for 
"  abolitionist "  movements.  They  desired  and 
intended  that  slavery  should  cease,  and  many 
of  them  impoverished  themselves  in  their  efforts 
to  be  personally  rid  of  it.  But  they  resented  as 
an  impertinence  every  suggestion  of  interfer- 
ence with  it  on  the  part  of  the  national  govern- 
ment, or  on  the  part  of  the  dwellers  in  other 
states. 

For  these  men  accepted,  as  fully  as  the  men 
of  Massachusetts  once  did,  the  doctrine  that 
every  state  was  sovereign  except  in  so  far  as  it 
had  delegated  certain  functions  of  sovereignty 
to  the  general  government.  They  held  it  to  be 
the  absolute  right  of  each  state  to  regulate  its 
domestic  affairs  in  its  own  way,  and  they  were 
ready  to  resent  and  resist  all  attempts  at  out- 
side interference  with  their  state's  institutions, 
precisely  as  they  would  have  resisted  and  re- 

37 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

sented  the  interference  of  anybody  with  the 
ordering  of  their  personal  households. 

Arthur  Brent's  father,  Brandon  Brent,  was 
a  man  of  this  type.  Upon  coming  of  age  and 
soon  afterwards  marrying,  he  determined,  as 
he  formulated  his  thought,  to  "  set  himself 
free."  When  Arthur  was  bom  he  became  more 
resolute  than  ever  in  this  purpose,  under  the 
added  stimulus  of  affection  for  his  child.  "  The 
system  "  he  said  to  his  wife,  **  is  hurtful  to 
young  white  men,  I  do  not  intend  that  Arthur 
shall  gi:ow  up  in  the  midst  of  it." 

So  he  sold  to  his  brother  his  half  interest  in 
the  four  or  five  thousand  acres  which  consti- 
tuted Wyanoke  plantation,  and  with  the  pro- 
ceeds removed  those  of  the  negroes  who  had 
fallen  to  his  share  to  little  farms  which  he  had 
bought  for  them  in  Indiana. 

This  left  him  with  a  wife,  a  son,  and  a  few 
hundred  dollars  with  which  to  begin  life  anew. 
He  went  West  and  engaged  in  the  practice  of 
the  law.  He  literally  "  grew  up  with  the 
country."  He  won  sufficient  distinction  to 
represent  his  district  in  Congress  for  several 
successive  terms,  and  to  leave  behind  him  when 
he  died  a  sweetly  savored  name  for  all  the 
higher  virtues  of  honorable  manhood. 

He  left  to  his  son  also,  a  fair  patrimony,  the 

38 


DR.  ARTHUR  BRENT 

fruit  of  his  personal  labors  in  his  profession, 
and  of  the  growth  of  the  western  country  in 
which  he  lived. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  the  boy  had  been  sent 
to  pass  a  delightful  year  at  Wyanoke,  while 
fitting  himself  for  college  under  the  care  of  the 
same  tutor  who  had  personally  trained  the 
father,  and  whose  influence  had  been  so  good 
that  the  father  invoked  it  for  his  son  in  his 
turn.  The  old  schoolmaster  had  long  since 
given  up  his  school,  but  when  Brandon  Brent 
had  written  to  him  a  letter,  attributing  to  his 
influence  and  teaching  all  that  was  best  in  his 
own  life's  success,  and  begging  him  to  crown 
his  useful  life's  labors  with  a  like  service  to 
this  his  boy,  he  had  given  up  his  ease  and 
undertaken  the  task. 

Arthur  had  finished  his  college  course,  and 
was  just  beginning,  with  extraordinary  enthu- 
siasm, his  study  of  medicine  when  his  father 
died,  leaving  him  alone  in  the  world;  for  the 
good  mother  had  passed  away  while  the  boy 
was  yet  a  mere  child. 

After  his  father's  death,  Arthur  found  many 
business  affairs  to  arrange.  Attention  to  these 
seriously  distracted  him,  greatly  to  his  annoy- 
ance, for  he  had  become  an  enthusiast  for 
scientific  acquirement,  and  grudged  every  mo- 

39 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

ment  of  time  that  affairs  occupied  to  the  neglect 
of  his  studies.  In  this  mood  of  irritation  with 
business  details,  the  young  man  decided  to  con- 
vert the  whole  of  his  inheritance  into  cash  and 
to  invest  the  proceeds  in  annuities.  "  I  shall 
never  marry/'  he  told  himself.  "  I  shall  devote 
my  whole  life  to  science.  I  shall  need  only  a 
moderate  income  to  provide  for  my  wants,  but 
that  income  must  come  to  me  without  the  dis- 
traction of  mind  incident  to  the  earning  of  it. 
I  must  be  completely  a  free  man — free  to  live 
my  own  life  and  pursue  my  own  purposes." 

So  he  invested  all  that  he  had  in  American 
and  English  annuity  companies,  and  when  that 
business  was  completed,  he  found  himself  se- 
cure in  an  income,  not  by  any  means  large  but 
quite  sufficient  for  all  his  needs,  and  assured 
to  him  for  all  the  years  that  he  might  live.  "  I 
shall  leave  nothing  behind  me  when  I  die,"  he 
reflected,  "  but  I  shall  have  nobody  to  provide 
for,  and  so  this  is  altogether  best." 

Then  he  set  himself  to  work  in  almost  terrible 
earnest.  He  lived  in  the  laboratories,  the  hos- 
pitals, the  clinics  and  the  libraries.  When  his 
degree  as  a  physician  was  granted  his  knowl- 
edge of  science,  quite  outside  the  ordinary  range 
of  medical  study  was  deemed  extraordinary 
by  his  professors.    A  place  of  honor  in  one  of 

40 


DR.  ARTHUR  BRENT 

the  great  medical  colleges  was  offered  to  him, 
but  he  declined  it,  and  went  to  Germany  and 
France  instead.  He  had  fairly  well  mastered 
the  languages  of  those  two  countries,  and  he 
was  minded  now  to  go  thither  for  instruction, 
under  the  great  masters  in  biology  and  chemis- 
try and  physics. 

Two  years  later — and  four  years  before  the 
beginning  of  this  story,  there  came  to  Arthur 
Brent  an  opportunity  of  heroic  service  which 
he  promptly  embraced.  There  broke  out,  in 
Norfolk,  in  his  native  state,  in  the  year  1855, 
such  an  epidemic  of  yellow  fever  as  had  rarely 
been  known  anywhere  before,  and  it  found 
a  population  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the  subtle 
poison  of  the  scourge. 

Facing  the  fact  that  he  was  in  no  way  im- 
mune, the  young  physician  abandoned  the  work 
he  had  returned  from  Paris  to  New  York  to 
do,  and  went  at  once  to  the  post  of  danger  as 
a  volunteer  for  medical  service.  Those  whose 
memories  stretch  back  to  that  terrible  year  of 
1855,  remember  the  terms  in  which  Virginia 
and  all  the  country  echoed  the  praises  of  Dr. 
Arthur  Brent,  the  plaudits  that  everywhere 
greeted  his  heroic  devotion.  The  newspapers 
day  by  day  were  filled  with  despatches  telling 
with  what  tireless  devotion  this  mere  boy — he 

41 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

was  scarcely  more  than  twenty  three  years  of 
age — was  toiling  night  and  day  at  his  self  ap- 
pointed task,  and  how  beneficent  his  work  was 
proving  to  be.  The  same  newspapers  told  with 
scorching  scorn  of  physicians  and  clergymen — 
a  very  few  of  either  profession,  but  still  a  few 
— who  had  quitted  their  posts  in  panic  fear  and 
run  away  from  the  danger.  Day  by  day  the 
readers  of  the  newspapers  eagerly  scanned  the 
despatches,  anxious  chiefly  to  learn  that  the 
young  hero  had  not  fallen  a  victim  to  his  own 
compassionate  enthusiasm  for  the  relief  of  the 
stricken. 

Dr.  Arthur  Brent  knew  nothing  of  all  this 
at  the  time.  His  days  and  nights  were  too  fully 
occupied  with  his  perilous  work  for  him  even 
to  glance  at  a  newspaper.  He  was  himself 
stricken  at  last,  but  not  until  the  last,  not  until 
that  grand  old  Virginian,  Henry  A.  Wise  had 
converted  his  Accomac  plantation  into  a  relief 
camp  and,  arming  his  negroes  for  its  defence 
against  a  panic  stricken  public,  had  robbed  the 
scourge  of  its  terrors  by  drawing  from  the  city 
all  those  whose  presence  there  could  afford  op- 
portunity for  its  spread. 

Dr.  Arthur  Brent  was  among  the  very  last 
of  those  attacked  by  the  scourge,  and  it  was  to 
give  that  young  hero  a  meagre  chance  for  life 

42 


DR.  ARTHUR  BRENT 

that  Henry  A.  Wise  went  in  person  to  Norfolk 
and  brought  the  physician  away  to  his  own 
plantation  home,  in  armed  and  resolute  defiance 
alike  of  quarantine  restrictions  and  of  the  pro- 
tests of  an  angry  and  frightened  mob. 

Such  in  brief  had  been  the  life  story  of  Ar- 
thur Brent.  On  his  recovery  from  a  terribly 
severe  attack  of  the  fever,  he  had  gone  again 
to  Europe,  not  this  time  for  scientific  study,  but 
for  the  purpose  of  restoring  his  shattered  con- 
stitution through  rest  upon  a  Swiss  mountain 
side.  After  a  year  of  upbuilding  idleness,  he 
had  returned  to  New  York  with  his  health 
completely  restored. 

There  he  had  taken  an  inexpensive  apart- 
ment, and  resumed  his  work  of  scientific  in- 
ve^igation  upon  lines  which  he  had  thought 
out  during  his  long  sojourn  in  Switzerland. 

Three  years  later  there  came  to  him  news 
that  his  uncle  at  Wyanoke  was  dead,  and  that 
the  family  estate  had  become  his  own  as  the 
only  next  of  kin.  It  pleased  Arthur's  sense  of 
humor  to  think  of  a  failure  of  "  kin  "  in  Vir- 
ginia, where,  as  he  well  remembered,  pretty 
nearly  everybody  he  had  met  in  boyhood  had 
been  his  cousin. 

But  the  news  that  he  was  sole  heir  to  the 
family  estate  was  not  altogether  agreeable  to 

43 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

the  young  man.  "  It  will  involve  me  in  affairs 
again,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  that  is  what 
I  meant  should  never  happen  to  me.  There  is 
a  debt  on  the  estate,  of  course.  I  never  heard 
of  a  Virginia  estate  without  that  adornment. 
Then  there  are  the  negroes,  whose  welfare  is 
in  my  charge.  Heaven  knows  I  do  not  want 
them  or  their  value.  But  obviously  they  and 
the  debt  saddle  me  with  a  duty  which  I  cannot 
escape.  I  suppose  I  must  go  to  Wyanoke.  It 
is  very  provoking,  just  as  I  have  made  all  my 
arrangements  to  study  the  problem  of  sewer 
gas  poisoning  with  a  reasonable  hope  of  solving 
it  this  summer !  " 

He  thought  long  and  earnestly  before  decid- 
ing what  course  to  pursue.  On  the  one  hand  he 
felt  that  his  highest  duty  in  life  was  to  science 
as  a  servant  of  humanity.  He  realized,  as  few 
men  do,  how  great  a  beneficence  the  discovery 
of  a  scientific  fact  may  be  to  all  mankind. 
"  And  there  are  so  few  men,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  who  are  free  as  I  am  to  pursue  investiga- 
tions untrammeled  by  other  things — the  care  of 
a  family,  the  ordering  of  a  household,  the  edu- 
cation of  children,  the  earning  of  a  living !  If 
I  could  have  this  summer  free,  I  believe  I  could 
find  out  how  to  deal  with  sewer  gas,  and  that 
would  save  thousands  of  lives  and  immeasur- 

44 


DR.  ARTHUR  BRENT 

able  suffering !  And  there  are  my  other  investi- 
gations that  are  not  less  pressing  in  their  im- 
portance. Why  should  I  have  to  give  up  my 
work,  for  which  I  have  the  equipment  of  a  thor- 
ough training,  a  sufficient  income,  youth,  high 
health,  and  last  but  not  least,  enthusiasm  ?  " 

He  did  not  add,  as  a  less  modest  man  might, 
that  he  had  earned  a  reputation  which  com- 
manded not  only  the  attention  but  the  willing 
assistance  of  his  scientific  brethren  in  his  work, 
that  all  laboratories  were  open  to  him,  that  all 
men  of  science  were  ready  to  respond  to  his 
requests  for  the  assistance  of  their  personal 
observation  and  experience,  that  the  columns  of 
all  scientific  journals  were  freely  his  to  use  in 
setting  forth  his  conclusions  and  the  facts  upon 
which  they  rested. 

"  I  wish  I  could  put  the  whole  thing  into  the 
hands  of  an  agent,  and  bid  him  sell  out  the 
estate,  pay  off  the  debts  and  send  me  the  re- 
mainder of  the  proceeds,  with  which  to  endow  a 
chair  of  research  in  some  scientific  school !  But 
that  would  mean  selling  the  negroes,  and  I'll 
never  do  that.  I  wish  I  could  set  them  all  free 
and  rid  myself  of  responsibility  for  them.  But 
I  cannot  do  that  unless  I  can  get  enough  money 
out  of  the  estate  to  buy  little  farms  for  them 
as  my  father  did  with  his  negroes.    I  mustn't 

45 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

condemn  them  to  starvation  and  call  it  freedom. 
I  wish  I  knew  what  the  debt  is,  and  how  much 
the  land  will  bring.  Then  I  could  plan  what  to 
do.  But  as  I  do  not  know  anything  of  the 
kind,  I  simply  must  go  to  Wyanoke  and  study 
the  problem  as  it  is.  It  will  take  all  summer 
and  perhaps  longer.  But  there  is  nothing  else 
for  it." 

That  is  how  it  came  about  that  Dr.  Arthur 
Brent  sat  in  the  great  hallway  at  Wyanoke, 
talking  with  Aunt  Polly,  when  Dorothy  South 
returned,  accompanied  by  her  hounds. 


46 


IV 

DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED 

JT^OROTHY  came  up  to  the  front  gate 

I     B     3t  3,  light  gallop.     Disdaining  the 

-^— ^      assistance  of  the  horse  block,   she 

nimbly  sprang  from  the  saddle  to  the  ground 

and  called  to  her  mare  "  Stand,  Chestnut ! " 

Then  she  gathered  up  the  excessively  long 
riding  skirt  which  the  Amazons  of  that  time 
always  wore  on  horseback,  and  walked  up  the 
pathway  to  the  door,  leaving  the  horse  to  await 
the  coming  of  a  stable  boy.  Arthur  could  not 
help  observing  and  admiring  the  fact  that  she 
walked  with  marked  dignity  and  grace  even  in 
a  riding  skirt — a  thing  so  exceedingly  difficult 
to  do  that  not  one  woman  in  a  score  could  ac- 
complish it  even  with  conscious  effort.  Yet 
this  mere  girl  did  it,  manifestly  without  either 
effort  or  consciousness.  As  an  accomplished 
anatomist  Dr.  Brent  knew  why.  "  That  girl 
has  grown  up,'*  he  said  to  himself,  "  in  as  per- 
fect a  freedom  as  those  locust  trees  out  there, 
enjoy.    She  is  as  straight  as  the  straightest  of 

47 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

them,  and  she  has  perfect  use  of  all  her  muscles. 
I  wonder  who  she  is,  and  why  she  gives  orders 
here  at  Wyanoke  quite  as  if  she  belonged  to 
the  place,  or  the  place  belonged  to  her/' 

This  last  thought  was  suggested  by  the  fact 
that  just  before  mounting  the  two  steps  that 
led  to  the  porch,  Dorothy  had  whistled  through 
her  fingers  and  said  to  the  negro  man  who  an- 
swered her  call : — "  Take  the  hounds  to  the 
kennels,  and  fasten  them  in.  Turn  the  setters 
out." 

But  the  young  man  had  little  time  for  won- 
dering. The  girl  came  into  the  hall,  and,  as 
Aunt  Polly  had  gone  to  order  a  little  "  snack," 
she  introduced  herself. 

"You  are  Dr.  Brent,  I  think?  Yes?  well, 
I'm  Dorothy  South.  Let  me  bid  you  welcome 
as  the  new  master  of  Wyanoke." 

With  that  she  shook  hands  in  a  fashion  that 
was  quite  child-like,  and  tripped  away  up  the 
stairs. 

Arthur  Brent  found  himself  greatly  inter- 
ested in  the  girl.  She  was  hardly  a  woman,  and 
yet  she  was  scarcely  to  be  classed  as  a  child.  In 
her  manner  as  well  as  in  her  appearance  she 
seemed  a  sort  of  compromise  between  the  two. 
She  was  certainly  not  pretty,  yet  Arthur's  quick 
scrutiny  informed  him  that  in  a  year  or  two 

48 


DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED 

she  was  going  to  be  beautiful.  It  only  needed 
a  little  further  ripening  of  her  womanhood  to 
work  that  change.  But  as  one  cannot  very  well 
fall  in  love  with  a  woman  who  is  yet  to  be, 
Arthur  Brent  felt  no  suggestion  of  other  senti- 
ment than  one  of  pleased  admiration  for  the 
girl,  mingled  with  respect  for  her  queenly  pre- 
mature dignity.  He  observed,  however,  that 
her  hair  was  nut  brown  and  of  luxuriant 
growth,  her  complexion,  fair  and  clear  in  spite 
of  a  pronounced  tan,  and  her  eyes  large,  deep 
blue  and  finely  overarched  by  their  dark  brows. 

Before  he  had  time  to  think  further  concern- 
ing her,  Aunt  Polly  returned  and  asked  him 
to  "  snack." 

"  Dorothy  will  be  down  presently,"  she  said. 
"  She's  quick  at  changing  her  costume." 

Arthur  was  about  to  ask,  "  Who  is  Doro- 
thy ?  And  how  does  she  come  to  be  here  ?  " 
but  at  that  moment  the  girl  herself  came  in, 
white  gowned  and  as  fresh  of  face  as  a  newly 
blown  rose  is  at  sunrise. 

"  If  s  too  bad.  Aunt  Polly,"  she  said,  "  that 
you  had  to  order  the  snack.  I  ought  to  have 
got  home  in  time  to  do  my  duty,  and  I  would, 
only  that  Trump  behaved  badly — Trump  is  one 
of  my  dogs,  Doctor — and  led  the  others  into 
mischief.    He  ran  after  a  hare,  and,  of  course, 

49 


VOROTHr  SOUTH 

I  had  to  stop  and  discipline  him.  That  made 
me  late." 

"  You  keep  your  dogs  under  good  control 
Miss — ^by  the  way  how  am  I  to  call  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  just  yet,"  answered  the  girl 
with  the  frankness  of  a  little  child. 

"  How  so?  "  asked  Arthur,  as  he  laid  a  dainty 
slice  of  cold  ham  on  her  plate. 

"  Why,  don't  you  see,  I  don't  know  you  yet. 
After  we  get  acquainted  Til  tell  you  how  to  call 
me.  I  think  I  am  going  to  like  you,  and  if  I 
do,  you  are  to  call  me  Dorothy.  But  of  course 
I  can't  tell  yet.  Maybe  I  shall  not  like  you  at 
all,  and  then — well,  we'll  wait  and  see." 

"  Very  well,"  answered  the  young  master  of 
the  plantation,  amused  by  the  girl's  extraordi- 
nary candor  and  simplicity.  "I'll  call  you 
Miss  South  till  you  make  up  your  mind  about 
liking  or  detesting  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  that,"  the  girl  quickly  an- 
swered. "  That  would  be  too  grown  up.  But 
you  might  say  *  Miss  Dorothy,'  please,  till  I 
make  up  my  mind  about  you." 

"  Very  well.  Miss  Dorothy.  Allow  me  to 
express  a  sincere  hope  that  after  you  have  come 
to  know  what  sort  of  person  I  am,  you'll  like 
me  well  enough  to  bid  me  drop  the  handle  to 
your  name." 

SO 


DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED 

"  But  why  should  you  care  whether  a  girl 
like  me  likes  you  or  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  because  I  am  very  strongly  disposed 
to  like  a  girl  like  you." 

"  How  can  you  feel  that  way,  when  you  don't 
know  me  the  least  little  bit  ?  " 

"  But  I  do  know  you  a  good  deal  more  than 
'  the  least  little  bit,'  "  answered  the  young  man 
smiling. 

"  How  can  that  be  ?    I  don't  understand." 

"  Perhaps  not,  and  yet  it  is  simple  enough. 
You  see  I  have  been  training  my  mind  and  my 
eyes  and  my  ears  and  all  the  rest  of  me  all  my 
life,  into  habits  of  quick  and  accurate  observa- 
tion, and  so  I  see  more  at  a  glance  than  I  should 
otherwise  see  in  an  hour.  For  example,  you'll 
admit  that  I  have  had  no  good  chance  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  your  hounds,  yet  I  know 
that  one  of  them  has  lost  a  single  joint  from 
his  tail,  and  another  had  a  bur  inside  one  of  his 
ears  this  morning,  which  you  have  since  re- 
moved." 

The  girl  laid  down  her  fork  in  something 
like  consternation. 

"  But  I  shan't  like  you  at  all  if  you  see  things 
in  that  way.  I'll  never  dare  come  into  your 
presence." 

**Oh,  yes,  you  will.     I  do  not  observe  for 

5x 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

the  purpose  of  criticising;  especially  I  never 
criticise  a  woman  or  a  girl  to  her  detriment." 

"  That  is  very  gallant,  at  any  rate,"  answered 
the  girl,  accenting  the  word  "  gallant  "  strongly 
on  the  second  syllable,  as  all  Virginians  of  that 
time  properly  did,  and  as  few  other  people  ever 
do.  "  But  tell  me  what  you  started  to  say, 
please?" 

"What  was  it?" 

"  Why,  you  said  you  knew  me  a  good  deal. 
I  thought  you  were  going  to  tell  me  what  you 
knew  about  me." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  part  of  what  I  know.  I 
know  that  you  have  a  low  pitched  voice — a  con- 
tralto it  would  be  called  in  musical  nomencla- 
ture. It  has  no  jar  in  it — it  is  rich  and  full 
and  sweet,  and  while  you  always  speak  softly, 
your  voice  is  easily  heard.  I  should  say  that 
you  sing." 

"  No.     I  must  not  sing." 

"Must    not?     How    is    that?" 

The  girl  seemed  embarrassed — almost  pain- 
ed.    The  young  man,  seeing  this,  apologized: 

"  Pardon  me !  I  did  not  mean  to  ask  a  per- 
sonal question." 

"  Never  mind !  "  said  the  girl.  "  You  were 
not  unkind.  But  I  must  not  sing,  and  I  must 
never  learn  a  note  of  music,  and  worst  of  all 

5^ 


DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED 

I  must  not  go  to  places  where  they  play  fine 
music.  If  I  ever  get  to  liking  you  very  well 
indeed,  perhaps  I'll  tell  you  why — at  least  all 
the  why  of  it  that  I  know  myself — for  I  know 
only  a  little  about  it.  Now  tell  me  what  else\ 
you  know  about  me.  You  see  you  were  wrong 
this  time." 

"  Yes,  in  a  way.  Never  mind  that.  I  know 
that  you  are  a  rigid  disciplinarian.  You  keep 
your  hounds  under  a  sharp  control." 

"  Oh,  I  must  do  that.  They  would  eat  some- 
body up  if  I  didn't.  Besides  it  is  good  for  them. 
You  see  dogs  and  women  need  strict  control. 
A  mistress  will  do  for  dogs,  but  every  woman 
needs  a  master." 

The  girl  said  this  as  simply  and  earnestly  as 
she  might  have  said  that  all  growing  plants 
need  water  and  sunshine.  Arthur  was  aston- 
ished at  the  utterance,  delivered,  as  it  was,  in 
the  manner  of  one  who  speaks  the  veriest  tru- 
ism. 

"  Now,"  he  responded,  "  I  have  encountered 
something  in  you  that  I  not  only  do  not  under- 
stand but  cannot  even  guess  at.  Where  did 
you  learn  that  cynical  philosophy?  "  • 

"  Do  you  mean  what  I  said  about  dogs  ?  " 

"  No.  Though  '  cynic '  means  a  dog.  I 
mean  what  you  said  about  women.    Where  did 

53 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

you  get  the  notion  that  every  woman  needs  a 
master  ?  " 

"Why,  anybody  can  see  that/'  answered 
the  girl.  "  Every  girl's  father  or  brother  is 
her  master:  till  she  grows  up  and  marries.  Then 
her  husband  is  her  master.  Women  are  al- 
ways very  bad  if  they  haven't  masters,  and  even 
when  they  mean  to  be  good,  they  make  a  sad 
mess  of  their  lives  if  they  have  nobody  to  con- 
trol them." 

If  this  slip  of  a  girl  had  talked  Greek  or 
Sanscrit  or  the  differential  calculus  at  him,  Ar- 
thur could  not  have  been  more  astounded  than 
he  was.  Surely  a  girl  so  young,  so  fresh,  and 
so  obviously  wholesome  of  mind  could  never 
have  formulated  such  a  philosophy  of  life  for 
herself,  even  had  she  been  thrown  all  her  days 
into  the  most  complex  of  conditions  and  sur- 
roundings, instead  of  leading  the  simplest  of 
lives  as  this  girl  had  manifestly  done,  and  see- 
ing only  other  living  like  her  own.  But  he 
forbore  to  question  her,  lest  he  trespass  again 
upon  delicate  ground,  as  he  had  done  with  re- 
spect to  music.  He  was  quick  to  remember  that 
he  had  already  asked  her  where  she  had  learned 
her  philosophy,  and  that  she  had  nimbly  evaded 
the  question — defending  her  philosophy  as  a 
thing  obvious  to  the  mind,  instead  of  answering 

54 


DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED 

the  inquiry  as  to  whence  she  had  drawn  the 
teaching. 

Altogether,  Arthur  Brent's  mind  was  in  a 
whirl  as  he  left  the  luncheon  table.  Simple  as 
she  seemed  and  transparent  as  her  personality 
appeared  to  him  to  be,  the  girl's  attitude  of 
mind  seemed  inexplicable  even  to  his  practised 
understanding.  Her  very  presence  in  the  house 
was  a  puzzle,  for  Aunt  Polly  had  offered  no 
explanation  of  the  fact  that  she  seemed  to  be- 
long there,  not  as  a  guest  but  as  a  member  of 
the  household,  and  even  as  one  exercising  au- 
thority there.  For  not  only  had  the  girl  apolo- 
gized for  leaving  Aunt  Polly  to  order  the  lunch- 
eon, but  at  table  and  after  the  meal  was  finished, 
it  was  she,  and  not  the  elder  woman  who  gave 
directions  to  the  servants,  who  seemed  accus- 
tomed to  think  of  her  as  the  source  of  author- 
ity, and  finally,  as  she  withdrew  from  the  dining 
room,  she  turned  to  Arthur  and  said : 

"  Doctor,  it  is  the  custom  at  Wyanoke  to  dine 
at  four  o'clock.  Shall  I  have  dinner  served 
at  that  hour,  or  do  you  wish  it  changed  ?  " 

The  young  man  declared  his  wish  that  the 
traditions  of  the  house  should  be  preserved, 
adding  playfully — "  I  doubt  if  you  could  change 
the  dinner  hour,  Miss  Dorothy,  even  if  we  all 
desired  it  so.     I  remember  Aunt  Kizzey,  the 

55 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

cook,  and  I  for  one  should  hesitate  to  oppose 
my  will  to  her  conservatism." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  answered  the  girl,  "  I  never 
have  any  trouble  managing  the  servants.  They 
know  me  too  well  for  that." 

"  What  could  you  do  if  you  told  Kizzey  to 
serve  dinner  at  three  and  she  refused?  "  asked 
the  young  man,  really  curious  to  hear  the  an- 
swer. 

"  I  would  send  for  Aunt  Kizzey  to  come  to 
me.  Then  I  would  look  at  her.  After  that  she 
would  do  as  I  bade  her." 

"  I  verily  believe  she  would,"  said  the  young 
man  to  himself  as  he  went  to  the  sideboard 
and  filled  one  of  the  long  stemmed  pipes.  "  But 
I  really  cannot  understand  why." 

He  had  scarcely  finished  his  pipe  when  Dor- 
othy came  into  the  hall  accompanied  by  a  negro 
girl  of  about  fourteen  years,  who  bore  a  work 
basket  with  her.  Seating  herself,  Dorothy  gave 
the  girl  some  instruction  concerning  the  knit- 
ting she  had  been  doing,  and  added :  "  You  may 
sit  in  the  back  porch  to-day.    It  is  warm." 

**  Is  it  too  warm,  Miss  Dorothy,  for  you  to 
make  a  little  excursion  with  me  to  the  stables  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  quickly  answered. 
"  ril  go  at  once." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said, "  and  we'll  stop  in 

S6 


DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED 

the  orchard  on  our  way  back  and  get  some  June 
apples.    I  remember  where  the  trees  are." 

''  You  want  me  to  show  you  the  horses,  I 
suppose,"  she  said  as  the  two  set  off  side  by 
side. 

"  No ;  any  of  the  negroes  could  do  that.  I 
want  you  to  render  me  a  more  skilled  serv- 
ice." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  want  you,  please,  to  pick  out  a  horse  for 
me  to  ride  while  I  stay  at  Wyanoke." 

"  While  you  stay  at  Wyanoke !  "  echoed  the 
girl.  "  Why,  that  will  be  for  all  the  time,  of 
course." 

"  I  hardly  think  so,"  answered  the  young 
man,  with  a  touch  of  not  altogether  pleased  un- 
certainty in  his  tone.  "  You  see  I  have  import- 
ant work  to  do,  which  I  cannot  do  anywhere 
but  in  a  great  city — or  at  any  rate," — as  the 
glamour  of  the  easy,  polished  and  altogether 
delightful  contentment  of  Virginia  life  came 
over  him  anew,  and  its  attractiveness  sang  like 
a  siren  in  his  ears, —  "  at  any  rate  it  cannot  be 
so  well  done  anywhere  else  as  in  a  large  city. 
I  have  come  down  here  to  Virginia  only  to  see 
what  duties  I  have  to  do  here.  If  I  find  I 
can  finish  them  in  a  few  months  or  a  year,  I 
shall  go  back  to  my  more  important  work." 

S7 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

The  girl  was  silent  for  a  time,  as  if  ponder- 
ing his  words.    Finally  she  said : 

"  Is  there  anything  more  important  than  to 
look  after  your  estate  ?  You  see  I  don't  under- 
stand things  very  well." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  best  that  you  never  shall,"  he 
answered.  "And  to  most  men  the  task  of 
looking  after  an  ancestral  estate,  and  managing 
a  plantation  with  more  than  a  hundred 
negroes — " 

"  There  are  a  hundred  and  eighty  seven  in 
all,  if  you  count  big  and  little,  old  and  young 
together,"  broke  in  the  girl. 

"Are  there?  How  did  you  come  to  know 
the  figures  so  precisely  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  keep  the  plantation  book,  you 
know." 

"  I  didn't  know,"  he  answered. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I've  kept  it  ever  since  I 
came  to  Wyanoke  three  or  four  years  ago.  You 
see  your  uncle  didn't  like  to  bother  with  de- 
tails, and  so  I  took  this  off  his  hands,  when  I 
was  so  young  that  I  wrote  a  great  big,  sprawl- 
ing hand  and  spelled  my  words  ever  so  queerly. 
But  I  wanted  to  help  Uncle  Robert.  You  see  I 
liked  him.  If  you'd  rather  keep  the  plantation 
book  yourself,  I'll  give  it  up  to  you  when  we 
go  back  to  the  house." 

S8 


DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED 

"  I  would  much  rather  have  you  keep  it,  at 
least  until  you  make  up  your  mind  whether  you 
like  me  or  not.  Then,  if  you  don't  like  me  I'll 
take  the  book." 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied,  treating  his  refer- 
ence to  her  present  uncertainty  of  mind  con- 
cerning himself  quite  as  she  might  have  treated 
his  -reference  to  a  weather  contingency  of  the 
morrow  or  of  the  next  week.  "  I'll  go  on  with 
the  book  till  then." 

By  this  time  the  pair  had  reached  the  stables, 
and  Miss  Dorothy,  in  that  low,  soft  but  pene- 
trating voice  which  Arthur  had  observed  and 
admired,  called  to  a  negro  man  who  was  dozing 
within : 

"  Ben,  your  master  wants  to  see  the  best  of 
the  saddle  horses.  Bring  them  out,  do  you 
hear?" 

The  question  "do  you  hear?"  with  which 
she  ended  her  command  was  one  in  universal 
use  in  Virginia.  If  an  order  were  given  to  a 
negro  without  that  admonitory  tag  to  it,  it 
would  fall  idly  upon  heedless  ears.  But  the 
moment  the  negro  heard  that  question  he  gath- 
ered his  wits  together  and  obeyed  the  order. 

"  What  sort  of  a  horse  do  you  like.  Doctor?  " 
asked  the  girl  as  the  animals  were  led  forth. 
"Can  you  ride?" 

59 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

"Why,  of  course/*  he  answered.  "You 
know  I  spent  a  year  in  Virginia  when  I  was  a 
boy." 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course — if  you  haven't  for- 
gotten. Then  you  don't  mind  if  a  horse  is 
spirited  and  a  trifle  hard  to  manage  ?  " 

"  No.  On  the  contrary.  Miss  Dorothy,  I 
should  very  much  mind  if  my  riding  horse  ' .ere 
not  spirited,  and  as  for  managing  Mm,  I'm 
going  to  get  you  to  teach  me  the  art  of  com- 
mand, as  you  practise  it  so  well  on  your  dogs, 
your  horse  and  the  house  servants." 

"  Very  well,"  answered  the  girl  seeming  not 
to  heed  the  implied  compliment.  "  Put  the 
horses  back  in  their  stalls,  Ben,  and  go  over  to 
Pocahontas  right  away,  and  tell  the  overseer 
there  to  send  Gimlet  over  to  me.  Do  you  hear  ? 
You  see.  Doctor,"  she  added,  turning  to  him, 
"  your  uncle's  gout  prevented  him  from  riding 
much  during  the  last  year  or  so  of  his  life, 
and  so  there  are  no  saddle  horses  here  fit  for  a 
strong  man  like  you.  There's  one  fine  mare, 
four  years  old,  but  she's  hardly  big  enough  to 
carry  your  weight.  You  must  weigh  a  hun- 
dred and  sixty  pounds,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  about  that.  But  whose  horse  is  Gim- 
let?" 

"  He's  mine,  and  he'll  suit  you  I'm  sure.    He 

60 


DR.  BRENT  IS  PUZZLED 

is  five  years  old,  nearly  seventeen  hands  high 
and  as  strong  as  a  young  ox." 

"  But  are  you  going  to  sell  him  to  me?  " 

"  Sell  him  ?  No,  of  course  not.  He  is  my 
pet.  He  has  eaten  out  of  my  hand  ever  since 
he  was  a  colt,  and  I  was  the  first  person  that 
ever  sat  on  his  back.  Besides,  I  wouldn't  sell 
a  horse  to  you.  Vm  going  to  lend  him  to  you 
till — till  I  make  up  my  mind.  Then,  if  I  like 
you  I'll  give  him  to  you.  If  I  don't  like  you 
I'll  send  him  back  to  Pocahontas.  Hurry  up, 
Ben.  Ride  the  gray  mare  and  lead  Gimlet 
back,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,  Miss  Dorothy, 
and  I—" 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  only  polite  and  neighborly. 
You  see  Wyanoke  and  Pocahontas  are  adjoin- 
ing plantations.  There  comes  Jo  with  your 
trunks,  so  we  shall  not  have  time  for  the  June 
apples  to-day — or  may  be  we  might  stop  long 
enough  to  get  just  a  few,  couldn't  we?  " 

With  that  she  took  the  young  man's  hand  as 
a  little  girl  of  ten  might  have  done,  and 
skipping  by  his  side,  led  the  way  into  the  or- 
chard. The  thought  of  the  June  apples  seemed 
to  have  awakened  the  child  side  of  her  nature, 
completely  banishing  the  womanly  dignity  for 
the  time  being. 

6i 


ARTHUR  BRENT'S  TEMPTATION 

X^URING  the  next  three  or  four  days 
t  M  Arthur  was  too  much  engaged  with 
-^"^  affairs  and  social  duties  to  pursue  his 
scientific  study  of  the  young  girl — half  woman, 
half  child — ^with  anything  like  the  eagerness 
he  would  have  shown  had  his  leisure  been  that 
of  the  Virginians  round  about  him.  He  had 
much  to  do,  to  "  find  out  where  he  stood,"  as 
he  put  the  matter.  He  had  with  him  for  two 
days  Col.  Majors  the  lawyer,  who  had  the 
estate's  affairs  in  charge.  That  comfortable 
personage  assured  the  young  man  that  the 
property  was  "  in  good  shape  "  but  that  assur- 
ance did  not  satisfy  a  man  accustomed  to  in- 
quire into  minute  details  of  fact  and  to  rest 
content  only  with  exact  answers  to  his  in- 
quiries. 

"  I  will  arrange  everything  for  you,"  said 
the  lawyer ;  "  the  will  gives  you  everything  and 
it  has  already  been  probated.  It  makes  you 
sole  executor  with  no  bonds,  as  well  as  sole 

62 


ARTHUR'S  TEMPTATION 

inheritor  of  the  estate.  There  is  really  nothing 
for  you  to  do  but  hang  up  your  hat.  You  take 
your  late  uncle's  place,  that  is  all." 

"  But  there  are  debts,"  suggested  Arthur. 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  they  are  trifling  and  the  estate 
is  a  very  rich  one.  None  of  your  creditors  will 
bother  you." 

"  But  I  do  not  intend  to  remain  in  debt,"  said 
the  young  man  impatiently.  "  Besides,  I  do 
not  intend  to  remain  a  planter  all  my  life.  I 
have  other  work  to  do  in  the  world.  This  in- 
heritance is  a  burden  to  me,  and  I  mean  to  be 
rid  of  it  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Allow  me  to  suggest,"  said  the  lawyer  in 
his  self-possessed  way,  "  that  the  inheritance  of 
Wyanoke  is  a  sort  of  burden  that  most  men  at 
your  time  of  life  would  very  cheerfully  take 
upon  their  shoulders." 

"  Very  probably,"  answered  Arthur.  "  But 
as  I  happen  not  to  be  '  most  men  at  my  time  of 
life,'  it  distinctly  oppresses  me.  It  loads  me 
with  duties  that  are  not  congenial  to  me.  It 
requires  my  attention  at  a  time  when  I  very 
greatly  desire  to  give  my  attention  to  some- 
thing which  I  regard  as  of  more  importance 
than  the  growing  of  wheat  and  tobacco  and 
com." 

"  Every  one  to  his  taste,"  answered  the  law- 

63 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

yer,  "  but  I  confess  I  do  not  see  what  better  a 
young  man  could  do  than  sit  down  here  at 
Wyanoke  and,  without  any  but  pleasurable 
activities,  enjoy  all  that  life  has ,  to  give. 
Your  income  will  be  large,  and  your  credit 
quite  beyond  question.  You  can  buy  what- 
ever you  want,  and  you  need  never  bother 
yourself  with  a  business  detail.  No  dun  will 
ever  beset  your  door.  If  any  creditor  of  yours 
should  happen  to  want  his  money,  as  none  will, 
you  can  borrow  enough  to  pay  him  without 
even  going  to  Richmond  to  arrange  the  matter. 
I  will  attend  to  all  such  things  for  you,  as  I 
did  for  your  late  uncle." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  Arthur  answered 
in  a  tone  which  suggested  that  he  did  not  thank 
him  at  all.  "  But  I  always  tie  my  own  shoe 
strings.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  go  on 
living  here  or  not,  whether  I  shall  give  up  my 
work  and  my  ambitions  and  settle  down  into  a 
life  of  inglorious  ease,  or  whether  I  shall  be 
strong  enough  to  put  that  temptation  aside.  I 
confess  it  is  a  temptation.  Accustomed  as  I 
am  to  intensity  of  intellectual  endeavor,  I  con- 
fess that  the  prospect  of  sitting  down  here  in 
lavish  plenty,  and  living  a  life  unburdened  by 
care  and  un vexed  by  any  sense  of  exacting 
duty,  has  its  allurements  for  me.     I  suppose, 

64 


ARTHURS  TEMPTATION 

indeed,  that  any  well  ordered  mind  would  find 
abundant  satisfaction  in  such  a  life  programme, 
and  perhaps  I  shall  presently  find  myself  grow- 
ing content  with  it.  But  if  I  do,  I  shall  not 
consent  to  live  in  debt." 

"  But  everybody  has  his  debts — everybody 
who  has  an  estate.  It  is  part  of  the  property, 
as  it  were.  Of  course  it  would  be  uncomfort- 
able to  owe  more  than  you  could  pay,  but  you 
are  abundantly  able  to  owe  your  debts,  so  you 
need  not  let  them  trouble  you.  All  told  they  do 
not  amount  to  the  value  of  ten  or  a  dozen  field 
hands." 

"  But  I  shall  never  sell  my  negroes." 

"  Of  course  not.  No  gentleman  in  Virginia 
ever  does  that,  unless  a  negro  turns  criminal 
and  must  be  sent  south,  or  unless  nominal  sales 
are  made  between  the  heirs  of  an  estate,  simply 
by  way  of  distributing  the  property.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  suggest  such  a  thing.  I  meant  only 
to  show  you  how  unnecessary  it  is  for  you  to 
concern  yourself  about  the  trifling  obligations 
on  your  estate — how  small  a  ratio  they  bear  to 
the  value  of  the  property." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  answered  Arthur. 
"  But  at  the  same  time  these  debts  do  trouble 
me  and  will  go  on  troubling  me  till  the  last 
dollar  of  them  is  discharged.     This  is  simply 

6< 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

because  they  interfere  with  the  plans  I  have 
formed — or  at  least  am  forming — for  so  order- 
ing my  affairs  that  I  may  go  back  to  my  work. 
Pray  do  not  let  us  discuss  the  matter  further. 
I  will  ask  you,  instead,  to  send  me,  at  your 
earliest  convenience,  an  exact  schedule  of  the 
creditors  of  this  estate,  together  with  the 
amount — principal  and  interest — that  is  owing 
to  each.  I  intend  to  make  it  my  first  business 
to  discharge  all  these  obligations.  Till  that  is 
done,  I  am  not  my  own  master,  and  I  have  a 
decided  prejudice  in  favor  of  being  able  to 
order  my  own  life  in  my  own  way." 

Behind  all  this  lay  the  fact  that  Arthur  Brent 
was  growing  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  sus- 
picious of  himself.  The  beauty  and  calm  of 
Wyanoke,  the  picturesque  contentment  of  that 
refined  Virginia  life  which  was  impressed  anew 
upon  his  mind  every  time  a  neighboring  planter 
rode  over  to  take  breakfast,  dinner,  or  supper 
with  him,  or  drove  over  in  the  afternoon  with 
his  wife  and  daughters  to  welcome  the  new 
master  of  the  plantation — all  this  fascinated 
his  mind  and  appealed  strongly  to  the  partially 
developed  aesthetic  side  of  his  nature,  and  at 
times  the  strong,  earnest  manhood  in  him  re- 
sented the  fact  almost  with  bitterness. 

There  was  never  anywhere  in  America  a 

66 


ARTHUR'S  TEMPTATION 

country  life  like  that  of  Virginia  in  the  period 
before  the  war.    In  that  state,  as  nowhere  else 
on  this  continent,  the  refinement,  the  culture, 
the  education  and  the  graceful  social  life  of  the 
time  were  found  not  in  the  towns,  but  in  the 
country.     There  were  few  cities  in  the  state 
and  they  were  small.    They  existed  chiefly  for 
the  purpose  of  transacting   business    for    the 
more  highly  placed  and  more  highly  cultivated 
planters.     The  people  of  the  cities,  with  ex- 
ceptions that  only  emphasized  the  general  truth, 
were  inferior  to  the  dwellers  on  the  plantations, 
in  point  of  education,  culture  and  social  posi- 
tion.   It  had  always  been  so  in  Virginia.    From 
the  days  of  William  Byrd  of  Westover  to 
those  of  Washington,  and  Jefferson  and  Mad- 
ison and  John  Marshall,  and  from  their  time  to 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  it  had 
been  the  choice  of  all  cultivated  Virginians  to 
live  upon  their  plantations.    Thence  had  always 
come  the  scholars,  the  statesmen,   the  great 
lawyers  and  the  masterful  political  writers  who 
had  conferred  untold  lustre  upon  the  state. 

Washington's  career  as  military  chieftain 
and  statesman,  had  been  one  long  sacrifice  of 
his  desire  to  lead  the  planter  life  at  Mount  Ver- 
non. Jefferson's  heart  was  at  Monticello  while 
he  penned  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and 

67 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

it  was  the  proud  boast  of  Madison  that  he  like 
Jefferson,  quitted  public  office  poorer  than  he 
was  when  he  undertook  such  service  to  his 
native  land,  and  rejoiced  in  his  return  to  the 
planter  life  of  his  choice  at  Montpelier. 

In  brief,  the  entire  history  of  the  state  and 
all  its  traditions,  all  its  institutions,  all  its  habits 
of  thought  tended  to  commend  the  country  life 
to  men  of  refined  mind,  and  to  make  of  the  plan- 
tation owners  and  their  families  a  distinctly  rec- 
ognized aristocracy,  not  only  of  social  prestige 
but  even  more  of  education,  refinement  and  in- 
tellectual leadership. 

To  Arthur  Brent  had  come  the  opportunity 
to  make  himself  at  once  and  without  effort,  a 
conspicuous  member  of  this  blue  blooded  caste. 
His  plantation  had  come  to  him,  not  by  vulgar 
purchase,  but  by  inheritance.  It  had  been  the 
home  of  his  ancestors,  the  possession  and  seat 
of  his  family  for  more  than  two  hundred  years. 
And  his  family  had  been  from  the  first  one  of 
distinction  and  high  influence.  One  of  his 
great,  great,  great  grandfathers,  had  been  a 
member  of  the  Jamestown  settlement  and  a 
soldier  under  John  Smith.  His  great,  great 
grandfather  had  shared  the  honor  of  royal  pro- 
scription as  an  active  particioant  in  Bacon's 
rebellion.    His  great  grandfather  had  been  the 

68 


ARTHUR'S  TEMPTATION 

companion  of  young  George  Washington  in 
his  perilous  expeditions  to  "  the  Ohio  country," 
and  had  fallen  by  Washington's  side  in  Brad- 
dock's  blundering  campaign.  His  grandfather 
had  been  a  drummer  boy  at  Yorktown,  had 
later  become  one  of  the  great  jurists  of  the 
state  and  had  been  a  distinguished  soldier  in 
the  war  of  1812.  His  father,  as  we  know,.,  had 
strayed  away  to  the  west,  as  so  many  Vir- 
ginians of  his  time  did,  but  he  had  won  honors 
there  which  made  Virginia  proud  of  him. 
And  fortunately  for  Arthur  Brent,  that  fath- 
er's removal  to  the  west  was  not  made  until 
this  his  son  had  been  bom  at  the  old  family 
seat. 

"  For,"  explained  Aunt  Polly  to  the  young 
man,  in  her  own  confident  way,  "  in  spite  of 
your  travels,  you  are  a  native  Virginian,  Ar- 
thur, and  when  you  have  dropped  into  the  ways 
of  the  country,  people  will  overlook  the  fact 
that  you  have  lived  so  much  at  the  north,  and 
even  in  Europe." 

"But  why.  Aunt  Polly,"  asked  Arthur, 
"  should  that  fact  be  deemed  something  to  be 
'  overlooked  ?  '  Surely  travel  broadens  one's 
views  and — " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  in  the  case  of  people  not 
bom  in  Virginia.    But  a  Virginian  doesn't  need 

69 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

it,  and  it  upsets  his  ideas.  You  see  when  a  Vir- 
ginian travels  he  forgets  what  is  best.  He  actu- 
ally grows  like  other  people.  You  yourself 
show  the  ill  effects  of  it  in  a  hundred  ways.  Of 
course  you  haven't  quite  lost  your  character  as 
a  Virginian,  and  you'll  gradually  come  back  to 
it  here  at  Wyanoke ;  but  '  evil  communications 
corrupt  good  manners,'  and  I  can't  help  seeing 
it  in  you — at  least  in  your  speech.  You  don't 
pronounce  your  words    correctly.      You    say 

*  cart,'  '  carpet,'  and  '  garden,'  instead  of 
'  cyart,'  *  cyarpet,'  and  '  gyarden.'  And  you 
flatten  your  a's  dreadfully.  You  say  '  grass  ' 
instead  of  *  grawss  '  and  *  basket '  instead  of 

*  bawsket '  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  And  you 
roll  your  r's  dreadfully.  It  gives  me  a  chill 
whenever  I  hear  you  say  '  master '  instead  of 

*  mahstah.'  But  you'll  soon  get  over  that,  and 
in  the  meantime,  as  you  were  born  in  Virginia 
and  are  the  head  of  an  old  Virginia  family,  the 
gentlemen  and  ladies  who  are  coming  every  day 
to  welcome  you,  are  very  kind  about  it.  They 
overlook  it,  as  your  misfortune,  rather  than 
your  fault." 

"  That  is  certainly  very  kind  of  them,  Aunt 
Polly.  I  can't  imagine  anything  more  generous 
in  the  mind  than  that.  But — ^well,  never 
mind." 

70 


ARTHURS  TEMPTATION 

"What  were  you  going  to  say,  Arthur?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  of  any  consequence.  I  was 
only  thinking  that  perhaps  my  Virginia  neigh- 
bors do  not  lay  so  much  stress  upon  these  things 
as  you  do." 

"  Of  course  not.  That  is  one  of  the  troubles 
of  this  time.  Since  we  let  the  Yankees  build 
railroads  through  Virginia,  everybody  here 
wants  to  travel.  Why,  half  the  gentlemen  in 
this  cotmty  have  been  to  New  York !  " 

"  How  very  shocking !  "  said  Arthur,  hiding 
his  smile  behind  his  hand. 

"  That's  really  what  made  the  trouble  for 
poor  Dorothy,"  mused  Aunt  Polly.  "If  her 
father  hadn't  gone  gadding  about — ^he  even 
went  to  Europe  you  know — Dorothy  never 
would  have  been  born." 

"  How  fortunate  that  would  have  been !  But 
tell  me  about  it,  Aunt  Polly.  You  see  I  don't 
quite  understand  in  what  way  it  would  have 
been  better  for  Dorothy  not  to  have  been  bom 
— unless  we  accept  the  pessimist  philosophy, 
and  consider  all  human  life  a  curse." 

"  Now  you  know,  I  don't  understand  that 
sort  of  talk,  Arthur,"  answered  Aunt  Polly. 
"  I  never  studied  philosophy  or  chemistry,  and 
I'm  glad  of  it.  But  I  know  it  would  have 
been  better  for  Dorothy  if  Dr.  South  had  stayed 

71 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

at  home  like  a  reasonable  man,  and  married— 
but  there,  I  mustn't  talk  of  that.  Dorothy  is  a 
dear  girl,  and  I'm  fitting  her  for  her  position 
in  life  as  well  as  I  can.  If  I  could  stop  her 
from  thinking,  now,  or — " 

"  Pray  don't.  Aunt  Polly !  Her  thinking  in- 
terests me  more  than  anything  I  ever  studied, 
— except  perhaps  the  strange  and  even  inex- 
plicable therapeutic  effect  of  champagne  in  yel- 
low fever — " 

"  There  you  go  again,  with  your  outlandish 
words,  which  you  know  I  don't  understand  or 
want  to  understand,  though  sometimes  I  re- 
member them." 

"  Tell  me  of  an  instance.  Aunt  Polly." 

"  Why,  you  said  to  me  the  other  night  that 
Dorothy  was  a  *  psychological  enigma  '  to  your 
mind,  and  that  you  very  much  wished  you 
might  know  *the  conditions  of  heredity  and 
environment '  that  had  produced  '  so  strange  a 
phenomenon.'  There !  I  remember  your  words, 
though  I  haven't  the  slightest  notion  what  they 
mean.  I  went  upstairs  and  wrote  them  down. 
Of  course  I  couldn't  spell  them  except  in  my 
own  way — and  that  would  make  you  laugh  I 
reckon  if  you  could  see  it,  which  you  never  shall 
— ^but  I  haven't  a  glimmering  notion  of  what 

72 


dRTHUR'S  TEMPTATION 

the  words  mean.  Now  I  want  to  tell  you  about 
Dorothy." 

"  Good !    I  am  anxious  to  hear !  " 

"  Oh,  Vvn  not  going  to  tell  you  what  you 
want  to  hear.  That  would  be  gossip,  and  no 
Virginia  woman  ever  gossips." 

That  was  true.  The  Virginians  of  that  time, 
men  and  women  alike,  locked  their  lips  and  held 
their  tongues  in  leash  whenever  the  temptation 
came  to  them  to  discuss  the  personal  affairs 
of  their  neighbors.  They  were  bravely  free  and 
frank  of  speech  when  telling  men  to  their  faces 
what  opinions  they  might  hold  concerning 
them ;  but  they  did  that  only  when  necessity,  or 
honor,  or  the  vindication  of  truth  compelled. 
They  never  made  the  character  or  conduct  or 
affairs  of  each  other  a  subject  of  conversation. 
It  was  the  very  crux  of  honor  to  avoid  that. 

"  Then  tell  me  what  you  are  minded  to  re- 
veal. Aunt  Polly,"  responded  Arthur.  "  I  do 
not  care  to  know  anything  else." 

"  Well,  Dorothy  is  in  a  peculiar  position — 
not  by  her  own  fault.  She  must  marry  into  a 
good  family,  and  it  has  fallen  to  me  to  prepare 
her  for  her  fate." 

"  Surely,  Aunt  Polly,"  interjected  the  young 
man  with  a  shocked  and  distressed  tone  in  his 

73 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

voice,  "  surely  you  are  not  teaching  that  child 
to  think  of  marriage — yet  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  answered  Aunt  Polly.  "  Fm 
only  trying  to  train  her  to  submissiveness  of 
mind,  so  that  when  the  time  comes  for  her  to 
make  the  marriage  that  is  already  arranged  for 
her,  she  will  interpose  no  foolish  objections. 
It's  a  hard  task.  The  girl  has  a  wilful  way 
of  thinking  for  herself.  I  can't  cure  her  of  it, 
do  what  I  will." 

"  Why  should  you  try  ?  "  asked  Arthur,  al- 
most with  excitement  in  his  tone.  "  Why 
should  you  try  to  spoil  nature's  fine  handiwork  ? 
That  child's  intellectual  attitude  is  the  very  best 
I  ever  saw  in  one  so  young,  so  simple  and  so 
childlike.  For  heaven's  sake,  let  her  alone! 
Let  her  live  her  own  life  and  think  in  her  own 
honest,  candid  and  fearless  way,  and  she  will 
develop  into  a  womanhood  as  noble  as  any  that 
the  world  has  seen  since  Eve  persuaded  Adam 
to  eat  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  and  quit  being 
a  fool." 

r  "  Arthur,  you  shock  me !  " 
'  **  Fm  sorry,  Aunt  Polly,  but  I  shall  shock 
you  far  worse  than  that,  if  you  persist  in  your 
effort  to  warp  and  pervert  that  child's  nature 
to  fit  it  to  some  preconceived  purpose  of  con- 
ventionality." 

74 


ARTHUR'S  TEMPTATION 

"  I  don't  know  just  what  you  mean,  Arthur,** 
responded  the  old  lady,  "  but  I  know  my  duty, 
and  I'm  going  to  do  it.  The  one  thing  neces- 
sary in  Dorothy's  case,  is  to  stop  her  from 
thinking,  and  train  her  to  settle  down,  when 
the  time  comes,  into  the  life  of  a  Virginia  ma- 
tron.   It  is  her  only  salvation." 

"  Salvation  from  what?  "  asked  Arthur,  al- 
most angrily. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  the  old  lady  answered. 
"  But  the  girl  will  never  settle  into  her  proper 
place  if  she  goes  on  thinking,  as  she  does  now. 
So  I'm  going  to  stop  it." 

"  And  I,"  the  young  man  thought,  though  he 
did  not  say  it,  "  am  going  to  teach  her  to  think 
more  than  ever.  I'll  educate  that  child  so  long 
as  I  am  condemned  to  lead  this  idle  life.  I'll 
make  it  my  business  to  see  that  her  mind  shall 
not  be  put  into  a  corset,  that  her  extraordinary 
truthfulness  shall  not  be  taught  to  tell  lies  by 
indirection,  that  she  shall  not  be  restrained  of 
her  natural  and  healthful  development.  It  will 
be  worth  while  to  play  the  part  of  idle  planta- 
tion owner  for  a  year  or  two,  to  accomplish  a 
task  like  that.  I  can  never  learn  to  feel  any 
profound  interest  in  the  growing  of  tobacco, 
wheat  and  corn — ^but  the  cultivation  of  that 
child  into  what  she  should  be  is  a  nobler  work 

75 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

than  that  of  all  the  agriculturists  of  the  south 
side  put  together.  I'll  make  it  my  task  while  I 
am  kept  here  away  from  my  life's  chosen 
work." 

That  day  Arthur  Brent  sent  a  letter  to  New 
York.  In  it  he  ordered  his  library  and  the  con- 
tents of  his  laboratory  sent  to  him  at  Wyanoke. 
He  ordered  also  a  good  many  books  that  were 
not  already  in  his  library.  He  sent  for  a  car- 
penter on  that  same  day,  and  set  him  at  work 
in  a  hurry,  constructing  a  building  of  his  own 
designing  upon  a  spot  selected  especially  with 
reference  to  drainage,  light  and  other  require- 
ments of  a  laboratory.  He  even  sent  to  Rich- 
mond for  a  plumber  to  put  in  chemical  sinks, 
drain  pipes  and  other  laboratory  fittings. 


76 


VI 

«NOW  YOU  MAY  CALL  ME  DOROTHY" 

^RTHUR  BRENT  had  now  come  to 
/J  understand,  in  some  degree  at  least, 
•^-^  who  Dorothy  South  was.  He  re- 
membered that  the  Pocahontas  plantation 
which  immediately  adjoined  Wyanoke  on  the 
east,  was  the  property  of  a  Dr.  South,  whom 
he  had  never  seen.  At  the  time  of  his  own 
boyhood's  year  at  Wyanoke  he  had  understood, 
in  a  vague  way  that  Dr.  South  was  absent 
somewhere  on  his  travels.  Somehow  the  peo- 
ple whom  he  had  met  at  Wyanoke  and  else- 
where, had  seemed  to  be  sorry  for  Dr.  South 
but  they  never  said  why.  Apparently  they 
held  him  in  very  high  esteem,  as  Arthur  re- 
membered, and  seemed  deeply  to  regret  the 
necessity — whatever  it  was — which  detained 
him  away,  and  to  all  intents  and  purposes  made 
of  Pocahontas  a  closed  house.  For  while  the 
owner  of  that  plantation  insisted  that  the  doors 
of  his  mansion  should  always  remain  open  to 
his  friends,  and  that  dinner  should  be  served 

77 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

there  at  the  accustomed  hour  of  four  o'clock 
every  day  during  his  absence,  so  that  any 
friend  who  pleased  might  avail  himself  of  a 
hospitality  which  had  never  failed, — there  was 
no  white  person  on  the  plantation  except  the 
overseer.  Gentlemen  passing  that  way  near  the 
dinner  hour  used  sometimes  to  stop  and  occupy 
places  at  the  table,  an  event  which  the  negro 
major-domo  always  welcomed  as  a  pleasing 
interruption  in  the  loneliness  of  the  house. 
The  hospitality  of  Pocahontas  had  been  notable 
for  generations  past,  and  the  old  servant  re- 
called a  time  when  the  laughter  of  young  men 
and  maidens  had  made  the  great  rooms  of  the 
mansion  vocal  with  merriment.  Arthur  him- 
self had  once  taken  dinner  there  with  his  uncle, 
and  had  been  curiously  impressed  with  the  rule 
of  the  master  that  dinner  should  be  served, 
whether  there  were  anybody  there  to  partake  of 
it  or  not.  He  recalled  all  these  things  now,  and 
argued  that  Dr.  South's  long  absence  could 
not  have  been  caused  by  anything  that  dis- 
credited him  among  the  neighbors.  For  had 
not  those  neighbors  always  regretted  his  ab- 
sence, and  expressed  a  wish  for  his  return? 
Arthur  remembered  in  what  terms  of  respect 
and  even  of  affection,  everybody  had  spoken  of 
the  absent  man.     He    remembered    too    that 

78 


*"  CALL  ME  DOROTHT" 

about  the  time  of  his  own  departure  from 
Wyanoke,  there  had  been  a  stir  of  pleased  ex- 
pectation, over  the  news  that  Dr.  South  was 
soon  to  return  and  reopen  the  hospitable  house. 

He  discovered  now  that  Dr.  South  had  in 
fact  returned  at  that  time  and  had  resumed  the 
old  life  at  Pocahontas,  dispensing  a  graceful 
hospitality  during  the  seven  or  eight  years  that 
had  elapsed  between  his  return  and  his  death. 
This  latter  event,  Arthur  had  incidentally 
learned,  had  occurred  three  years  or  so  before 
his  own  accession  to  the  Wyanoke  estate. 
Since  that  time  Dorothy  had  lived  with  Aunt 
Polly,  the  late  master  of  Wyanoke  having  been 
her  guardian. 

So  much  and  no  more,  Arthur  knew.  It  did 
not  satisfy  a  curiosity  which  he  would  not  sat- 
isfy by  asking  questions.  It  did  not  tell  him 
why  Aunt  Polly  spoke  of  the  girl  with  pity, 
calling  her  "  poor  Dorothy."  It  did  not  ex- 
plain to  him  why  there  should  be  a  special  ef- 
fort made  to  secure  the  girl's  marriage  into  a 
"  good  family."  What  could  be  more  probable 
than  that  that  would  happen  in  due  course 
without  any  managing  whatever?  The  girl 
was  the  daughter  of  as  good  a  family  as  any  in 
Virginia.  She  was  the  sole  heir  of  a  fine  estate. 
Finally,  she  promised  to  become  a  particularly 

79 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

beautiful  young  woman,  and  one  of  unusual  at- 
tractiveness of  mind. 

Yet  everywhere  Arthur  heard  her  spoken  of 
as  "  poor  Dorothy,'*  and  he  observed  particu- 
larly that  the  universal  kindness  of  the  gentle- 
women to  the  child  was  always  marked  by  a 
tone  or  manner  suggestive  of  compassion.  The 
fact  irritated  the  young  man,  as  facts  which  he 
could  not  explain  were  apt  to  do  with  one  of 
his  scientific  mental  habit.  There  were  other 
puzzling  aspects  of  the  matter,  too.  Why  was 
the  girl  forbidden  to  sing,  to  learn  music,  or 
even  to  enjoy  it  ?  Where  had  she  got  her  curi- 
ous conceptions  of  life?  And  above  all,  what 
did  Aunt  Polly  mean  by  saying  that  this  mere 
child's  future  marriage  had  been  "  already 
arranged  ?  " 

*'  The  whole  thing  is  a  riddle,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  I  shall  make  no  effort  to  solve  it, 
but  I  have  a  mind  to  interfere  somewhat  with 
the  execution  of  any  plans  that  a  stupid  conven- 
tionality may  have  formed  to  sacrifice  this 
rarely  gifted  child  to  some  Moloch  of  social 
propriety.  Of  course  I  shall  not  try  in  any  way 
to  control  her  life  or  direct  her  future.  But  at 
any  rate  I  shall  see  to  it  that  she  shall  be  com- 
pelled to  nothing  without  her  own  consent. 
Meanwhile,  as  they  won't  let  her  learn  music, 

80 


"CALL  ME  DOROTHT" 

I'll  teach  her  science.  I  see  clearly  that  it  will 
take  me  three  or  four  years  to  do  what  I  have 
planned  to  do  at  Wyanoke — to  pay  off  the 
debts,  and  set  the  negroes  up  as  small  farmers 
on  their  own  account  in  the  west.  During  that 
time  I  shall  have  ample  opportunity  to  train  the 
child's  mind  in  a  way  worthy  of  it,  and  when 
I  have  done  that  I  fancy  she  will  order  her  own 
life  with  very  little  regard  to  the  plans  of  those 
who  are  arranging  to  make  of  her  a  mere 
pawn  upon  the  chess  board.  Thank  heaven, 
this  thing  gives  me  a  new  interest.  It  will  pre- 
vent my  mind  from  vegetating  and  my  charac- 
ter from  becoming  mildewed.  It  opens  to  me 
a  duty  and  an  occupation — a  duty  untouched 
with  selfish  indulgence,  an  occupation  which  I 
can  pursue  without  a  thought  of  any  other  re- 
ward than  the  joy  of  worthy  achievement." 

"  Miss  Dorothy,"  he  said  to  the  girl  that 
evening,  "  I  observe  that  you  are  an  early 
riser." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied.  "  You  see  I  must 
be  up  soon  in  the  morning " — that  use  of 
"  soon  "  for  "  early  "  was  invariable  in  Vir- 
ginia— "  to  see  that  the  maids  begin  their  work 
right.    You  see  I  carry  the  keys." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  you  are  housekeeper,  and  a 
very  conscientious  one  I  think.    But  I  wonder 

8i 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

if  your  duties  in  the  early  morning  are  too  ex- 
acting to  permit  you  to  ride  with  me  before 
breakfast.  You  see  I  want  to  make  a  tour  of 
inspection  over  the  plantation  and  Fd  like  to 
have  you  for  my  guide.  The  days  are  so  warm 
that  I  have  a  fancy  to  ride  in  the  cool  of  the 
morning.  Would  it  please  you  to  accompany 
me  and  tell  me  about  things  ?  " 

"  I'll  like  that  very  much.  Fm  always  down 
stairs  by  five  o'clock,  so  if  you  like  we  can  ride 
at  six  any  morning  you  please.  That  will  give 
us  three  hours  before  breakfast." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  Arthur  replied. 
"  If  you  please,  then,  we'll  ride  tomorrow 
morning." 

When  Arthur  came  down  stairs  the  next 
morning  he  found  the  maids  busily  polishing 
the  snow-white  floors  with  pine  needles  and 
great  log  and  husk  rubbers,  while  their  young 
mistress  was  giving  her  final  instructions  to 
Johnny,  the  dining  room  servant.  Hearing 
Arthur's  step  on  the  stair  she  commanded  the 
negro  to  bring  the  coffee  urn  and  in  answer 
to  the  young  master's  cheery  good  mornings 
she  handed  him  a  cup  of  steaming  coffee. 

"  This  is  a  very  pleasant  surprise,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  I  had  not  expected  coffee  until 
breakfast  time." 

82 


''CALL  ME  DOROTHT'* 

"  Oh,  you  must  never  ride  soon  in  the  morn- 
ing without  taking  coffee  first,"  she  repHed. 
"  That's  the  way  to  keep  well.  We  always  have 
a  big  kettle  of  coffee  for  the  field  hands  before 
thej  go  to  work.  Their  breakfast  isn't  ready 
till  ten  o'clock,  and  the  coffee  keeps  the  chill 
off." 

"  Why  is  their  breakfast  served  so  late  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  like  it  that  way.  They  don't 
want  anything  but  coffee  soon  in  the  morn- 
ing. They  breakfast  at  ten,  and  then  the  time 
isn't  so  long  before  their  noonday  dinner." 

"  I  should  think  that  an  excellent  plan,"  an- 
swered the  doctor.  "  As  a  hygienist  I  highly 
approve  of  it.  After  all  it  isn't  very  different 
from  the  custom  of  the  French  peasants.  But 
come.  Miss  Dorothy,  Ben  has  the  horses  at  the 
gate." 

The  girl,  fresh-faced,  lithe-limbed  and  joy- 
ous, hastily  donned  her  long  riding  skirt  which 
made  her  look,  Arthur  thought,  like  a  little 
child  masquerading  in  some  grown  woman's 
garments,  and  nimbly  tripped  down  the  walk  to 
the  gate  way.  There  she  quickly  but  search- 
ingly  looked  the  horses  over,  felt  of  the  girths, 
and,  taking  from  her  belt  a  fine  white  cambric 
handkerchief,  proceeded  to  rub  it  vigorously  on 
the  animals'  rumps.     Finding  soil  upon  the 

83 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

dainty  cambric,  she  held  it  up  before  Ben's  face, 
and  silently  looked  at  him  for  the  space  of 
thirty  seconds.  Then  she  tossed  the  handker- 
chief to  him  and  commanded : — "  Go  to  the 
house  and  fetch  me  another  handkerchief." 

There  was  something  almost  tragic  in  the 
negro's  humiliation  as  he  walked  away  on  his 
mission.  Arthur  had  watched  the  little  scene 
with  amused  interest.  When  it  was  over  the 
girl,  without  waiting  for  him  to  offer  her  a 
hand  as  a  step,  seized  the  pommel  and  sprang 
into  the  saddle. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that,  Miss  Dorothy?  "  the 
young  man  asked  as  the  horses,  feeling  the  thrill 
of  morning  in  their  veins,  began  their  journey 
with  a  waltz. 

"What?  rub  the  horses?" 

"  No.  Why  did  you  look  at  Ben  in  that 
way  ?  And  why  did  it  seem  such  a  pimishment 
to  him?" 

"  I  wanted  him  to  remember.  He  knows  I 
never  permit  him  to  bring  me  a  horse  that  isn't 
perfectly  clean." 

"  And  will  he  remember  now  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  You  saw  how  severely  he  was 
punished  this  time.  He  doesn't  want  that  kind 
of  thing  to  happen  again." 

84 


''CALL  ME  DOROTHT" 

"  But  I  don't  understand.  You  did  nothing 
to  him.    You  didn't  even  scold  him." 

"  Of  course  I  didn't.  Scolding  is  foolish. 
Only  weak-minded  people  scold." 

"  But  I  shouldn't  have  thought  Ben  fine 
enough  or  sensitive  enough  to  feel  the  sort  of 
punishment  you  gave  him.  Why  should  he 
mind  it?" 

"  Oh,  everybody  minds  being  looked  at  in 
that  way — everybody  who  has  been  doing 
wrong.  You  see  one  always  knows  when  one 
has  done  wrong.  Ben  knew,  and  when  I  looked 
at  him  he  saw  that  I  knew  too.  So  it  hurt  him. 
You'll  see  now  that  he'll  never  bring  you  or  me 
a  horse  on  which  we  can  soil  our  handker- 
chiefs." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  all  that  ? "  asked 
Arthur,  full  of  curiosity  and  interest. 

"  I  suppose  my  father  taught  me.  He  taught 
me  everything  I  know.  I  remember  that  when- 
ever I  was  naughty,  he  would  look  at  me  over 
his  spectacles  and  make  me  ever  so  sorry.  You 
see  even  if  I  knew  I  had  done  wrong  I  didn't 
think  much  about  it,  till  father  looked  at  me. 
After  that  I  would  think  about  it  all  day  and 
all  night,  and  be,  oh,  so  sorry !  Then  I  would 
try  not  to  displease  my  fa:her  again." 

85 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  Your  father  must  have  been  a  very  wise 
as  well  as  a  very  good  man!  " 

"  He  was,"  and  two  tears  slipped  from  the 
girl's  eyes  as  she  recalled  the  father  who  had 
been  everything  to  her  from  her  very  infancy. 
"  That  is  why  I  always  try,  now  that  he  is  gone, 
never  to  do  anything  that  he  would  have  dis- 
liked. I  always  think  *  I  won't  do  that,  for  if 
I  do  father  will  look  at  me.'  You  see  I  must 
be  a  great  deal  more  careful  than  other  girls." 

"  Why?    I  see  no  reason  for  that." 

"That's  because  you  don't  know  about — 
about  things.  I  was  bom  bad,  and  if  I'm  not 
more  careful  than  other  girls  have  to  be,  I  shall 
be  very  bad  when  I  g^ow  up." 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  say  I  don't  believe 
that?"  asked  Arthur. 

"  Oh,  but  it's  true,"  answered  the  girl,  look- 
ing him  straight  in  the  face,  with  an  expression 
of  astonishment  at  his  incredulity. 

Arthur  saw  fit  to  change  the  conversation. 
So  he  returned  to  Ben's  case. 

"  Most  women  would  have  sent  Ben  to  the 
overseer  for  punishment,  wouldn't  they?  " 

"  Some  would,  but  I  never  find  that  neces- 
sary.   Besides  I  hate  your  overseer." 

"  Why  ?  What  has  he  done  to  incur  your 
displeasure,  Miss  Dorothy  ?  " 

86 


^CALL  ME  DOROTHT" 

"  Now  you're  mocking  me  for  minding 
things  that  are  none  of  my  business,"  said  the 
girl  with  a  touch  of  contrition  in  her  voice. 

"  Indeed  I  am  not,"  answered  the  young  man 
with  earnestness.  "  And  you  have  not  been 
doing  anything  of  the  kind.  I  asked  you  to 
tell  me  about  things  here  at  Wyanoke,  because 
it  is  necessary  that  I  should  know  them.  So 
when  you  tell  me  that  you  hate  the  overseer 
here,  I  want  to  know  why.  It  is  very  necessary 
for  me  to  know  what  sort  of  man  he  is,  so  that 
I  may  govern  myself  accordingly.  I  have 
great  confidence  in  your  judgment,  young  as 
you  are.  I  am  very  sure  you  would  not  hate  the 
overseer  without  good  cause.  So  you  will  do 
me  a  favor  if  you'll  tell  me  why  you  hate  him." 

"  It  is  because  he  is  cruel  and  a  coward." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I've  seen  it  for  myself.  He  strikes  the  field 
hands  for  nothing.  He  has  even  cruelly 
whipped  some  of  the  women  servants  with  the 
black  snake  whip  he  carries.  I  told  him  only 
a  little  while  ago  that  if  I  ever  caught  him 
doing  that  again,  I'd  set  my  dogs  on  him.  No 
Virginia  gentleman  would  permit  such  a  thing. 
Uncle  Robert — ^that's  the  name  I  always  called 
your  uncle  by — would  have  shot  the  fellow  for 
that,  I  think." 

87 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  But  why  did  Uncle  Robert  employ  such  a 
man  for  overseer  ?  " 

"  He  never  did.  Uncle  Robert  never  kept 
any  overseer.  He  used  to  say  that  the  author- 
ity of  the  master  of  a  plantation  was  too  great 
to  be  delegated  to  any  person  who  didn't  care 
for  the  black  people  and  didn't  feel  his  re- 
sponsibility." 

"  But  how  did  the  fellow  come  to  be  here 
then  ?    Who  employed  him  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Peyton  did — Mr.  Madison  Peyton. 
When  your  uncle  was  ill,  Mr.  Peyton  looked 
after  things  for  him,  and  he  kept  it  up  after 
Uncle  Robert  died.  He  hired  this  overseer. 
He  said  he  was  too  busy  on  his  own  plantation 
to  take  care  of  things  here  in  person." 

"  Uncle  Robert  was  quite  right,"  said  Arthur 
meditatively.  "  And  now  that  I  am  charged 
with  the  responsibility  for  these  black  people,  I 
will  not  delegate  my  power  to  any  overseer, 
least  of  all  to  one  whom  you  have  found  out  to 
be  a  cruel  coward.  Where  do  you  suppose  we 
could  find  him  now  ?  " 

"  Down  in  the  tobacco  new  grounds,"  the 
girl  answered.     "  I  was  going  there  to-day  to 
set  my  dogs  on  him,  but  I  remembered  that  you 
were  master  now." 
r    "  What  was  the  special  occasion  for  your 

88 


''CALL  ME  DOROTHT" 

anger  this  time?"  Arthur  asked  in  a  certain 
quiet,  seemingly  half  indifferent  tone  which 
Dorothy  found  inscrutable. 

"  He  whipped  poor  old  Michael,  the  gar- 
dener last  night,"  answered  the  girl  with  a  glint 
as  of  fire  in  her  eyes.  "  He  had  no  right  to  do 
that.  Michael  isn't  a  field  hand,  and  he  isn't 
under  the  overseer's  control." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  shambling  old  man  I 
saw  in  the  garden  yesterday?  Surely  he 
didn't  whip  that  poor  decrepit  old  man !  " 

"Yes,  he  did.  I  told  you  he  was  a  cruel 
coward." 

"  Let's  ride  to  the  tobacco  new  grounds  at 
once,"  said  Arthur  quite  as  he  might  have  sug- 
gested the  most  indifferent  thing.  But  Dorothy 
observed  that  on  the  way  to  the  new  grounds 
Arthur  Brent  spoke  no  word.  Twice  she  ad- 
dressed him,  but  he  made  no  response. 

Arrived  at  the  new  grounds  Arthur  called 
the  overseer  to  him  and  without  preface  asked 
him: 

"  Did  you  strike  old  Michael  with  your  whip 
last  night?" 

"  Yes,  and  there  wan't  a  lick  amiss  unless  I 
made  a  lick  at  him  and  missed  him." 

The  man  laughed  at  his  own  clumsy  witti- 
cism, but  the  humor  of  it  seemed  not  to  impress 

89 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

the  new  master  of  the  plantation.  For  reply 
he  said : 

''  Go  to  your  house  at  once  and  pack  up  your 
belongings.  Come  to  me  after  I  have  had  my 
breakfast,  and  we'll  have  a  settlement.  You 
are  to  leave  my  plantation  to-day  and  never  set 
foot  upon  it  again.  Come,  Miss  Dorothy,  let's 
continue  our  ride !  " 

With  that  the  two  wheeled  about,  the  girl 
saying : 

"  Let's  run  our  horses  for  a  stretch."  In- 
stantly she  set  off  at  breakneck  speed  across  the 
fields  and  over  two  stiff  fences  before  regain- 
ing the  main  plantation  road.  There  she  drew 
rein  and  turning  full  upon  her  companion  she 
said: 

"  Now  you  may  call  me  Dorothy." 


90 


VII 

SHRUB  HILL  CHURCH 

rHE  following  day  was  Sunday,  and  to 
Arthur's  satisfaction  it  was  one  of 
the  two  Sundays  in  the  month,  on 
which  services  were  held  at  Shrub  Hill  Church. 
For  Arthur  remembered  the  little  old  church 
there  in  the  woods,  with  the  ancient  cemetery, 
in  which  all  the  Brents  who  had  lived  before 
him  were  buried,  and  in  which  rested  also  all 
the  past  generations  of  all  the  other  good 
families  of  the  region  round  about. 

Shrub  Hill  Church  represented  one  of  the 
most  attractive  of  Virginia  traditions.  Early 
in  his  career  as  statesman,  Thomas  Jefferson 
had  rendered  Virginia  a  most  notable  service. 
He  had  secured  the  complete  separation  of 
church  from  state,  the  dissolution  of  that  un- 
holy alliance  between  religion  and  government, 
with  which  despotism  and  class  privilege  have 
always  buttressed  the  fabric  of  oppression.  But 
church  and  family  remained,  and  in  the  course 
of  generations  that  relation  had  assumed  char- 

91 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

acteristics  of  a  most  wholesome,  ameliorating 
and  liberalizing  character. 

Thus  at  Shrub  Hill  all  the  people  of  charac- 
ter and  repute  in  the  region  round  about,  found 
themselves  at  home.  They  were  in  large  de- 
gree Baptists  and  Presbyterians  in  their  per- 
sonal church  relations,  but  all  of  them  deemed 
themselves  members  of  Shrub  Hill — the  Epis- 
copal church  which  had  survived  from  that 
earlier  time  when  to  be  a  gentleman  carried 
with  it  the  presumption  of  adherence  to  the  es- 
tablished religion.  All  of  them  attended  serv- 
ice there.  All  contributed  to  the  cost  of  keep- 
ing the  edifice  and  the  graveyard  grounds  in 
repair.  All  of  them  shared  in  the  payment  of 
the  old  rector's  salary  and  he  in  his  turn 
preached  scrupulously  innocuous  sermons  to 
them — sermons  ten  minutes  in  length  which 
might  have  been  repeated  with  entire  propriety 
and  acceptance  in  any  Baptist  or  Presbyterian 
pulpit. 

When  the  Easter  elections  came,  all  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  neighborhood  felt  themselves  en- 
titled to  vote  for  the  wardens  and  vestrymen 
already  in  office,  or  for  the  acceptable  person 
selected  by  common  consent  to  take  the  place 
of  any  warden  or  vestryman  who  might  have 
been  laid  to  rest  beneath  the  sod  of  the  Shrub 

92 


SHRUB  HILL  CHURCH 

Hill  churchyard  during  the  year.  And  the 
wardens  and  vestrymen  were  Baptists,  Presby- 
terians, Episcopalians  or  gentlemen  professing 
no  faith,  quite  indifferently. 

These  people  were  hot  debaters  of  politics 
and  religion — especially  religion.  When  the 
question  of  immersion  or  pedo-baptism  was 
up,  each  was  ready  and  eager  to  maintain  the 
creed  of  his  own  church  with  all  the  arguments 
that  had  been  formulated  for  that  purpose 
generations  before  and  worn  smooth  to  the 
tongue  by  oft-repeated  use.  But  this  fervor 
made  no  difference  whatever  in  the  loyalty  of 
their  allegiance  to  their  old  family  church  at 
Shrub  Hill.  There  they  found  common  ground 
of  tradition  and  affection.  There  they  were  all 
alike  in  right  of  inheritance.  There  all  of  them 
expected  to  be  buried  by  the  side  of  their  fore- 
fathers. 

It  has  been  said  already  that  services  were 
held  at  Shrub  Hill  on  two  Sundays  of  the 
month.  As  the  old  rector  lived  within  a  few 
minutes'  walk  of  the  church,  and  had  no  other 
duty  than  its  ministry,  there  might  have  been 
services  there  every  Sunday  in  the  year,  except 
that  such  a  practice  would  have  interfered  with 
the  desire  of  those  who  constituted  its  congre- 
gation to  attend  their  own  particular  Baptist  or 

93 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

Presbyterian  churches,  which  held  services  on 
the  other  Sundays,  It  was  no  part  of  the  spirit 
or  mission  of  the  family  church  thus  to  inter- 
fere with  the  religious  preferences  of  its  mem- 
bers, and  so,  from  time  immemorial,  there  had 
been  services  at  Shrub  Hill  only  upon  two  Sun- 
days of  the  month. 

Everybody  attended  those  services— every 
gentleman  and  every  gentlewoman  at  least. 
That  is  to  say,  all  went  to  the  church  and  the 
women  with  a  few  of  the  older  men  went  in. 
The  rest  of  the  gentlemen  gathered  in  groups 
under  the  trees  outside — for  the  church  stood 
in  the  midst  of  an  imbroken  woodland — and 
chatted  in  low  tones  while  the  service  was  in 
progress.  Thus  they  fulfilled  their  gentlemanly 
obligations  of  church  going,  without  the  fa- 
tigue of  personal  participation  in  the  services. 

The  gentlemen  rode  to  church  on  horseback. 
The  ladies,  old  and  young  alike,  went  thither 
in  their  family  carriages.  Many  of  these,  es- 
pecially the  younger  ones,  were  accustomed  to 
go  everywhere  else  in  the  saddle,  but  to  church, 
propriety  and  tradition  required  them  to  go 
decorously  in  the  great  lumbering  vehicles  of 
family  state. 

The  gentlemen  arrived  first  and  took  their 

94 


SHRUB  HILL  CHURCH 

places  at  the  church  door  to  greet  the  gentle- 
women and  give  them  a  hand  in  alighting  from 
the  high-hung  carriages. 

As  soon  as  the  service  was  over  the  social 
clearing-house  held  its  session.  It  was  not 
known  by  that  name,  but  that  in  fact  was  what 
it  amounted  to.  Every  young  woman  present 
invited  every  other  young  woman  present  to 
go  home  with  her  to  dinner  and  to  stay  for  a 
few  days  or  for  a  week.  There  was  a  babel  of 
insistent  tongues  out  of  which  nothing  less  sa- 
gacious than  feminine  intelligence  could  have 
extracted  a  resultant  understanding.  But  after 
a  few  minutes  all  was  as  orderly  as  the  domes- 
tic arrangements  over  which  these  young  wo- 
men were  accustomed  to  preside.  Two  or  three 
of  them  had  won  all  the  others  to  their  will, 
and  the  company,  including  all  there  was  of 
young  and  rich  voiced  femininity  in  the  region 
round  about,  was  divided  into  squads  and  as- 
signed to  two  or  three  hospitable  mansions, 
whither  trunks  would  follow  in  the  early  morn- 
ing of  the  Monday. 

The  young  men  accommodated  themselves  at 
once  to  these  arrangements,  each  accepting  at 
least  a  dinner  invitation  to  the  house,  to  which 
the  young  woman  most  attractive  to  himself 

95 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

had  elected  to  go.  As  there  was  no  afternoon 
or  evening  service,  the  rehgious  duties  of  the 
day  were  at  an  end  before  one  of  the  clock. 

Out  under  the  trees  before  and  during  the 
service  the  men  discussed  affairs  of  interest  to 
themselves,  and  on  this  his  first  Sunday,  Arthur 
found  that  his  own  affairs  constituted  the  sub- 
ject of  most  general  interest.  He  was  heartily 
welcomed  as  the  new  master  of  Wyanoke,  the 
welcome  partaking  somewhat  of  the  nature  of 
that  given  to  one  who  returns  to  right  ways  of 
living  after  erratic  wanderings.  There  was  a 
kindly  disposition  to  recognize  Arthur's  birth- 
right as  a  Virginian,  together  with  a  generous 
readiness  to  forgive  his  youthful  indiscretion 
in  living  so  much  elsewhere. 

Only  one  man  ventured  to  be  censorious,  and 
that  was  Madison  Peyton,  who  was  accustomed 
to  impress  himself  upon  the  community  in  ways 
which  were  sometimes  anything  but  agreeable, 
but  to  which  everybody  was  accustomed  to  sub- 
mit in  a  nameless  sort  of  fear  of  his  sharp 
tongue — everybody,  that  i»^^  say,  except  Aunt 
Polly  and  John  Meaux. 

Aunt  Polly  was  not  afraid  of  Madison  Pey- 
ton for  several  reasons.  The  first  was  that 
Aunt  Polly  was  not  accustomed  to  stand  in  awe 
of  anybody.     The  second  was  that  her  blood 

96 


SHRUB  HILL  CHURCH 

was  quite  the  bluest  in  all  that  part  of  the  State 
and  she  had  traditions  behind  her.  Finally  she 
was  a  shrewdly  penetrative  person  who  had 
long  ago  discovered  the  nature  of  Madison  Pey- 
ton's pretensions  and  subjected  them  to  sarcas- 
tic analysis.  As  for  John  Meaux,  everybody 
knew  him  as  by  odds  the  most  successful  planter 
and  most  capable  man  of  business  in  the  county. 
Madison  Peyton  could  teach  him  nothing,  and 
he  had  a  whiplash  attachment  to  his  tongue,  the 
sting  of  which  Peyton  did  not  care  to  invoke. 

For  the  rest,  Madison  Peyton  was  dominant. 
It  was  his  habit  to  lecture  his  neighbors  upon 
their  follies  and  short-comings  and  rather  arro- 
gantly, though  with  a  carefully  simulated  good 
nature,  to  dictate  to  them  what  they  should  or 
should  not  do,  assuming  with  good-natured  in- 
solence an  authority  which  in  no  way  belonged 
to  him.  In  this  way,  during  the  late  Robert 
Brent's  last  illness,  Peyton  had  installed  as 
overseer  at  Wyanoke,  a  man  whom  the  planters 
generally  refused  to  employ  because  of  his 
known  cruelty,  but  whose  capacity  to  make  full 
crops  was  well  attested  by  experience. 

Arthur  Brent  had  summarily  dismissed  this 
man  as  we  know,  and  Pe)rton  was  distinctly 
displeased  with  him  for  doing  so.  Taking  the 
privilege  of  an  old  friend  of  the  young  man's 

97 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

uncle,  Peyton  called  him  by  his  first  name, 
without  any  prefix  whatever. 

"  Why  in  the  world,  Arthur,"  he  said  by  way 
of  introducing  the  subject,  "  why  in  the  world 
have  you  sent  Williams  away  ?  " 

Something  in  Peyton's  manner,  something 
that  was  always  in  his  manner,  had  given 
Arthur  a  feeling  of  resentment  when  the  man 
had  called  upon  him  soon  after  his  arrival. 
This  direct  interrogatory  concerning  a  matter 
exclusively  his  own,  almost  angered  the  young 
man,  as  the  others  saw  when,  instead  of  an- 
swering it  directly,  he  asked : 

"  Are  you  specially  interested  in  Williams's 
welfare,  Mr.  Peyton  ?  " 

Peyton  was  too  self-satisfied  to  be  sensitive, 
so  he  took  the  rebuff  with  a  laugh. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered.  "  It  is  you  that  I'm 
troubled  about.  Knowing  nothing  of  planting 
you  need  a  capable  overseer  more  than  any- 
body else  does,  and  here  youVe  sent  away  the 
best  one  in  the  county  without  even  consulting 
anybody." 

"  I  did  not  need  to  consult  anybody,"  an- 
swered Arthur,  "  in  order  to  know  that  I  did 
not  want  that  man  on  my  plantation." 

"  Oh,  of  course !  But  you  can't  get  another 
overseer  at  this  time  of  year,  you  know." 

98 


SHRUB  HILL  CHURCH 

"  On  the  whole,  I  don't  think  I  want  another 
at  any  time  of  year." 

"  You  imagine  perhaps  that  you  know  some- 
thing about  planting.  I've  known  other  young 
men  to  make  the  same  mistake." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  learn,"  answered  Arthur  in 
placid  tones.  '*  I  have  learned  some  things 
quite  as  difficult  in  my  life." 

"  But  you  don't  know  anything  about  plant- 
ing, and  if  you  try  it  without  an  overseer  you'll 
find  your  account  at  your  commission  mer- 
chant's distressingly  short  at  the  end  of  the 
year." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  broke  in  John 
Meaux,  "  You  predicted  the  same  thing  in  my 
case,  you  remember,  Mr.  Peyton,  when  I  came 
back  after  graduating  at  West  Point,  and  yet 
I've  managed  to  keep  some  hams  In  my  meat 
house  for  fifteen  years  now, — and  I  never  had 
an  overseer." 

Ignoring  Meaux's  interruption  Peyton  said 
to  Arthur: 

"  And  you  know  you've  got  a  law-suit  on 
your  hands." 

"Havel?    I  didn't  know  it." 

"  Why,  of  course,  Williams  will  sue.  You 
see  he  was  engaged  for  the  year,  and  the  con- 
tract lasts  till  January." 

99 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

"  Who  made  the  contract  ?  "  asked  Arthur. 

"  Well,  I  did — acting  for  your  uncle." 

"  Had  you  my  uncle's  power  of  attorney  to 
bind  him  to  a  year's  arrangement?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  He  was  ill  and  I  merely 
did  a  neighbor's  part." 

"  Then  suppose  Williams  should  sue  you  in- 
stead of  me  ?  You  see  it  is  you  who  are  liable 
for  non-fulfilment  of  that  contract.  You  bar- 
gained with  this  man  to  serve  you  for  a  year 
as  overseer  on  my  plantation,  and  I  have  de- 
clined to  accept  the  arrangement.  If  he  has  a 
right  of  action  against  anybody,  it  is  against 
you.  However,  I  don't  think  he  will  sue  you, 
for  I  have  paid  him  his  wages  for  the  full  year. 
Fortunately  I  happened  to  have  money  enough 
in  bank  for  that.  There  is  the  voluntary — let's 
go  into  church." 

Arthur  Brent  entered  the  place  of  service, 
one  or  two  of  the  gentlemen  following  him. 

He  had  made  an  enemy  of  Madison  Peyton 
— an  enemy  who  would  never  admit  his  enmity 
but  would  never  lose  an  opportunity  to  indulge 
it 


lOO 


VIII 

A  DINNER  AT  BRANTON 

/T  fell  to  Arthur  Brent's  share  to  dine  on 
that  Sunday  at  Branton,  the  seat  of  the 
most  princely  hospitality  in  all  that 
part  of  Virginia.  The  matter  was  not  at  all 
one  of  his  own  arranging,  although  it  was  alto- 
gether agreeable  to  him.  The  master  of  Bran- 
ton — a  young  man  scarcely  older  than  himself, 
who  lived  there  with  his  only  sister,  Edmonia 
Bannister,  had  been  the  first  of  all  the  neigh- 
bors to  visit  Arthur,  dining  with  him  and  pass- 
ing the  night  at  Wyanoke.  He  had  been  most 
kindly  and  cordial  in  his  welcome  and  Arthur 
had  been  strongly  drawn  to  him  as  a  man  of 
character,  intelligence  and  very  winning  man- 
ners. No  sooner  had  Arthur  dismounted  at 
church  on  that  first  Sunday,  than  young  Archer 
Bannister  had  come  to  shake  his  hand  and  say 
— "  I  want  to  preempt  you.  Doctor  Brent.  All 
your  neighbors  will  clamor  for  your  company 
for  the  dinner  and  the  night,  but  I  have  done 
my  best  to  establish  the  priority  of  my  claim. 

lOI 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

Besides  my  good  sister  wants  you — ^and  as  a 
confidence  between  you  and  me,  I  will  tell  you 
that  when  my  sister  wants  anything  she  is 
extremely  apt  to  get  it.  Fm  something  of  a 
laggard  at  dressing  myself  for  church,  but  this 
morning  she  began  upon  me  early,  sending 
three  servants  to  help  me  put  on  my  clothes, 
and  laying  her  particular  commands  upon  me 
to  be  the  first  man  to  arrive  at  Shrub  Hill,  lest 
some  other  get  before  me  with  an  invitation  to 
dinner.  So  you  are  to  be  my  guest,  please,  and 
I'll  send  one  of  my  people  over  to  Wyanoke  for 
anything  you  want.  By  the  way,  IVe  cleared 
out  a  wardrobe  for  you  at  Branton,  and  a  dress- 
ing case.  You'll  need  to  send  over  a  supply  of 
linen,  coats,  boots,  underwear,  and  the  like  and 
leave  it  in  your  room  there,  so  that  you  shall  be 
quite  at  home  to  come  and  go  at  your  will,  with 
the  certainty  of  always  finding  ready  for  you 
whatever  you  need  in  the  way  of  costume." 

Arthur  Brent's  one  extravagance  was  in  the 
matter  of  clothes.  He  always  dressed  himself 
simply,  but  he  was  always  dressed  well,  and 
especially  it  was  his  pleasure  to  change  his  gar- 
ments as  often  as  the  weather  or  the  circum- 
stances might  suggest  the  desirability  of  a 
change.  Accordingly  he  had  brought  fat 
trunks  to  Wyanoke,  but  by  the  time  that  three 

I02 


A  DINNER  AT  BRANTON 

others  of  his  new  neighbors  had  informed  him, 
quite  casually  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  that 
they  had  prepared  rooms  for  him  and  expected 
him  to  send  to  those  rooms  a  supply  of  cloth- 
ing sufficient  for  any  need,  he  was  pleased  to 
remember  that  he  had  left  careful  measure- 
ments with  his  tailor,  his  shirt  maker,  his  fabri- 
cator of  footwear,  and  his  "  gents'  furnisher  " 
in  New  York.  And  he  had  also  acquired  a  new 
and  broader  conception  than  ever  before,  of  the 
comprehensive  heartiness  of  Virginia  hospi- 
tality. 

"  You  see,"  said  young  Bannister,  later  in  the 
day,  "  Branton  is  to  be  one  of  your  homes.  As 
a  young  man  you  will  be  riding  about  a  good 
deal,  and  you  mustn't  be  compelled  to  ride  all 
the  way  to  Wyanoke  every  time  you  want  to 
change  your  coat  or  substitute  low  quarter 
shoes  for  your  riding  boots.  If  you'll  ask  little 
Miss  Dorothy  to  show  you  my  room  at  Wya- 
noke you'll  find  that  I  have  everything  there 
that  any  gentleman  could  possibly  need  with 
which  to  dress  himself  properly  for  any  occa- 
sion, from  a  fish  fry  to  a  funeral,  from  a  fox 
hunt  to  a  wedding.  You  are  to  do  the  same 
at  Branton.  You  don't  do  things  in  that  way 
in  a  city,  of  course,  but  here  it  is  necessary,  be- 
cause of  the  distance  between  plantations.     A 

103 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

man  doesn't  want  all  his  belongings  in  one 
place  when  that  place  may  be  ten  or  a  dozen 
miles  away  when  he  wants  them." 

Arthur  found  Branton  to  be  substantially  a 
reproduction  of  Wyanoke,  except  that  the  great 
gambrel-roofed  house  had  many  wings  and  ex- 
tensions, and  several  one  storied,  two  roomed 
"  offices  "  built  about  the  grounds  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  any  overflow  of  guests  that 
might  happen  there.  The  house  had  been  built 
about  the  time  at  which  the  Wyanoke  mansion 
had  come  into  being.  It  was  of  wood,  but  by 
no  means  of  such  structure  as  we  now  expect 
in  a  wooden  house.  The  frame  was  made  of 
great  hewn  timbers  of  forest  pine,  twelve  inches 
square  as  to  floor  beams  and  rafter  plates,  and 
with  ten  inch  timbers  in  lieu  of  studding.  The 
vast  chimneys  were  supported,  not  upon  arches 
nicely  calculated  to  sustain  their  superincum- 
bent weight  with  a  factor  of  safety,  but  upon  a 
solid  mass  of  cellar  masonry  that  would  have 
sustained  the  biggest  of  Egyptian  monoliths. 
The  builders  of  the  old  colonial  time  may  not 
have  known  the  precise  strength  of  materials 
or  the  niceties  of  calculation  by  which  the  sup- 
porting capacity  of  an  arch  is  determined,  but 
they  knew — ^and  they  acted  upon  the  knowl- 

104 


A  DINNER  AT  BRANTON 

edge — ^that  twelve  inch,  heart  pine  timbers  set 
on  end  will  sustain  any  weight  that  a  dwelling 
is  called  upon  to  bear,  and  that  a  chimney  built 
upon  a  solid  mass  of  masonry,  twenty  feet  in 
diameter,  is  not  likely  to  fall  down  for  lack  of 
underpinning. 

One  full  half  of  the  ground  floor  of  the  great 
mansion  constituted  the  single  drawing  room,, 
wainscoted  to  the  ceiling  and  provided  with 
three  huge  fire  places  built  for  the  burning  o£ 
cord  wood.  The  floors  were  as  white  as  snow,, 
the  wainscoting  as  black  as  night  with  age  and 
jealous  polishing  with  beeswax.  After  the 
architectural  manner  of  the  country,  there  was 
a  broad  porch  in  front  and  another  in  rear,  each 
embowered  in  honeysuckles  and  climbing  rose 
bushes.  A  passageway,  more  than  twenty  feet 
in  width  ran  through  the  building,  connecting 
the  two  porches  and  constituting  the  most  gen- 
erally used  sitting  room  of  the  house.  It  had 
broad  oaken  doors  reaching  across  its  entire 
width.  They  stood  always  open  except  during 
the  very  coldest  days  of  the  mild  Virginia  win- 
ter, there  being  no  thought  of  closing  them 
even  at  night.  For  there  were  no  criminal 
classes  in  that  social  fabric,  and  if  there  had 
been,  the  certainty  that  the  master  of  the  man- 

105 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

sion  slept  upon  its  ground  floor  and  knew  what 
to  do  with  a  shot  gun,  would  have  been  a  suf- 
ficient deterrent  to  invasion  of  the  premises. 

There  were  two  large  fire  places  in  the  hall 
for  winter  use.  But  the  glory  of  the  place  was 
the  stairway,  with  its  broad  ashen  steps  and  its 
broader  landings.  Up  and  down  it  had  passed 
generations  of  happy  maidens  and  matrons. 
Up  and  down  it,  prattling  children  had  played 
and  romped  and  danced  in  happy  innocence. 
Up  and  down  it  wedding  guests  and  funeral 
attendants  had  come  and  gone,  carrying  their 
burdens  of  flowers  for  the  bride  and  blossoms 
for  the  bier.  Upon  it  had  been  whispered 
words  of  love  and  tenderness  that  prepared  the 
way  for  lives  of  happiness,  and  sorrowful  utter- 
ances that  soothed  and  softened  grief.  Upon 
its  steps  young  men  of  chivalric  soul  had  wooed 
maidens  worthy  of  their  devotion.  Upon  its 
landings  young  maidens  had  softly  spoken 
those  words  of  consent  which  ushered  in  lives 
of  rejoicing. 

The  furniture  of  the  house  was  in  keeping 
with  its  spaciousness  and  its  solidity.  Huge 
sofas  were  everywhere,  broad  enough  for  beds 
and  long  enough  for  giants  to  stretch  their  limbs 
upon.  Commodious,  plantation-made  chairs  of 
oak  invited  every  guest  to  repose  in  the  broad 

1 06 


d  DINNER  AT  BRANTON 

hallway.  In  the  drawing  room,  and  in  the 
spacious  dining  hall  the  sedate  ticking  of  high 
standing  clocks  marked  time  only  to  suggest 
its  abundance  in  that  land  of  leisure,  and  to 
invite  its  lavish  use  in  enjoyment. 

Now  add  to  all  this  still  life,  the  presence  of 
charming  people — men  of  gracious  mien  and 
young  women  of  immeasurable  charm,  young 
women  whose  rich  and  softly  modulated  voices 
were  exquisite  music,  and  whose  presence  was 
a  benediction — and  you  may  faintly  understand 
the  surroundings  in  which  Arthur  Brent  found 
himself  on  that  deliciously  perfect  Sunday  af- 
ternoon in  June,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,  1859. 

Is  it  surprising  that  the  glamour  of  it  all  took 
hold  upon  his  soul  and  tempted  him  to  rest  con- 
tent with  a  life  so  picturesquely  peaceful?  Is 
it  surprising  that  his  set  purpose  of  speedily 
returning  to  his  own  life  of  strenuous,  scientific 
endeavor,  somewhat  weakened  in  presence  of  a 
temptation  so  great?  All  this  was  his  for  the 
taking.  All  of  it  was  open  to  him  to  enjoy  if 
he  would.  All  of  it  lay  before  him  as  a  gracious 
inheritance.  Why  should  he  not  accept  it? 
Why  should  he  return  to  the  struggle  of  science, 
the  pent  life  of  cities?  Why  should  he  prowl 
about  tenement  houses  in  an  endeavor  to  solve 
the  problem  of  mephitic  gases,  when  all  this 

107 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

free,  balsamic  air  offered  itself  gratis  to  hi^ 
breathing?  He  had  but  one  life  to  live,  he 
reflected.  Why  should  he  not  live  it  here  in 
sweet  and  wholesome  ways?  Why  should  he 
not  make  himself  a  part  of  this  exquisitely 
poised  existence? 

All  these  vexed  and  vexing  questions  flitted 
through  his  brain  even  before  he  had  oppor- 
tunity to  meet  his  hostess  in  her  own  home, 
surrounded  by  her  bevy  of  variously  attractive 
young  women. 

Edmonia  Bannister  was  everywhere  recog- 
nized as  the  belle  of  the  state  in  which  she 
lived.  Suitors  for  her  hand  had  come  from 
afar  and  anear  to  woo  this  maiden  of  infinite 
charm,  and  one  by  one  they  had  gone  away  sor- 
rowing but  with  only  the  kindliest  memory  of 
the  gentleness  with  which^she  had  withheld  her 
consent  to  their  wooings. 

She  was  scarcely  beautiful.  The  word 
"  comely  "  seemed  a  better  one  with  which  to 
describe  her  appearance,  but  her  comeliness  was 
allied  to  a  charm  at  once  indefinable  and  irre- 
sistible. John  Meaux  had  said  that  "  it  is  a 
necessary  part  of  every  young  man's  education 
to  fall  in  love  with  Edmonia  Bannister  at  least 
once,"  and  had  predicted  that  fate  for  Arthur 
Brent.     Whether  the  prediction  was  destined 

lo8 


A  DINNER  AT  BRANTON 

to  be  fulfilled  or  not,  Arthur  could  not  decide 
on  this  his  first  day  as  a  guest  at  Branton.  He 
was  sure  that  he  was  not  in  love  with  the  girl 
at  the  end  of  his  visit,  but  he  drew  that  assur- 
ance chiefly  from  his  conviction  that  it  was 
absurd  to  fall  in  love  with  any  woman  upon 
acquaintance  so  slight.  While  holding  firmly 
to  that  conviction  he  nevertheless  felt  strongly 
that  the  girl  had  laid  a  spell  upon  him,  under 
control  of  which  he  was  well  nigh  helpless.  He 
was  by  no  means  the  first  young  man  to  whom 
this  experience  had  come,  and  he  was  not  likely 
to  be  the  last. 

And  yet  the  young  woman  was  wholly  free 
from  intent  thus  to  enslave  those  who  came  into 
her  life.  Her  artlessness  was  genuine,  and  her 
seriousness  profound.  There  was  no  faintest 
suggestion  of  frivolity  or  coquetry  in  her  man- 
ner. She  was  too  self-respecting  for  that,  and 
she  had  too  much  of  character.  One  of  those 
who  had  "  loved  and  lost "  her,  had  said  that 
"  the  only  art  she  used  was  the  being  of  her- 
self," and  all  the  rest  who  had  had  like  ex- 
perience were  of  the  same  mind.  So  far  in- 
deed was  she  from  seeking  to  bring  men  to 
her  feet  that  on  more  than  one  occasion  she 
had  been  quick  to  detect  ^mptoms  of  com- 
ing love  and  had  frankly  and  solemnly  said 

109 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

to  prospective  wooers  for  whom  she  felt  a 
particular  kindness — "  please  don't  fall  in  love 
with  me.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  reciprocate 
the  sentiment,  and  it  would  distress  me  to  re- 
ject your  suit/'  It  is  not  upon  record,  how- 
ever, that  any  one  of  those  who  were  thus 
warned  profited  by  the  wise  counsel.  On  the 
contrary,  in  many  instances,  this  mark  of  kind- 
liness on  her  part  had  served  only  to  precipitate 
the  catastrophe  she  sought  to  avert. 

Arthur  Brent  had  a  stronger  shield.  He  saw 
clearly  that  for  him  to  marry  this  or  any  other 
of  that  fair  land's  maidens  would  make  an  end 
of  his  ambitions. 

"  If  I  should  fall  in  love  down  here  in  Vir- 
ginia," he  reflected,  "  I  should  never  have 
strength  of  mind  enough  to  shake  off  the 
glamour  of  this  life  and  go  back  to  my  work. 
The  fascination  of  it  all  is  already  strong  upon 
me.  I  must  not  add  another  to  the  sources  of 
danger.  I  must  be  resolute  and  strong.  That 
way  alone  safety  lies  for  me.  I  will  set  to 
work  at  once  to  carry  out  my  mission  here, 
and  then  go  away.  I  shall  know  this  week 
how  matters  stand  with  the  estate.  I  shall 
busy  myself  at  once  with  my  fixed  purpose. 
I  shall  find  means  of  discharging  all  the  debts 
of  the  plantation.     Then  I  shall  sell  the  land 

IIO 


A  DINNER  AT  BRANTON 

and  with  the  proceeds  take  the  negroes  to  the 
west  and  settle  them  there  on  little  farms  of 
their  own.  Then  I  shall  be  free  again  to  re- 
sume my  proper  work  in  the  world.  Obvi- 
ously I  must  not  complicate  matters  by  mar- 
rying here  or  even  falling  in  love.  A  man 
with  such  a  duty  laid  upon  him  has  no  right  to 
indulge  himself  in  soft  luxury.  I  must  be 
strong  and  resolute." 

Nevertheless  Arthur  Brent  felt  an  easily  rec- 
ognizable thrill  of  delight  when  at  dinner  he 
found  himself  assigned  to  a  seat  on  Edmonia 
Bannister's  left  hand. 

There  were  sixteen  at  dinner,  and  all  were 
happy.  Arthur  alone  was  a  guest  unused  to 
occupy  that  place  at  Branton,  and  to  him  ac- 
cordingly all  at  table  devoted  special  attention. 
Three  at  least  of  the  younger  men  present,  had 
been  suitors  in  their  time  for  their  hostess's 
hand,  for  it  was  a  peculiarity  of  Edmonia's 
rejections  of  her  wooers,  that  they  usually 
soothed  passion  into  affection  and  made  of  dis- 
appointed lovers  most  loyal  friends.  Before 
the  dinner  came  to  an  end,  Arthur  found  him- 
self deliberately  planning  to  seek  this  relation 
of  close  friendship  without  the  initiatory  pro- 
cess of  a  love  making.  For  he  found  his  hostess 
to  be  wise  in  counsel  and  sincere  in  mind,  be- 

III 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

yond  her  years.  "  She  is  precisely  the  person 
to  advise  me  in  the  deHcate  affairs  that  I  must 
manage,"  he  thought.  "  For  in  the  present 
state  of  pubHc  feeling " — it  was  the  era  of 
Kansas-Nebraska  bills  and  violent  agitation — 
"  it  will  require  unusual  tact  and  discretion  to 
carry  out  my  plans  without  making  of  myself 
an  object  of  hatred  and  loathing.  This  young 
woman  has  tact  in  infinite  measure;  she  has 
discretion  also,  and  an  acquaintance  with  senti- 
ment here,  such  as  I  cannot  even  hope  to  ac- 
quire. Above  all  she  has  conscience,  as  I  dis- 
cover every  time  she  has  occasion  to  express 
an  opinion.  Til  make  her  my  friend.  I'll  con- 
sult her  with  regard  to  my  plans." 

By  way  of  preparation  for  this  he  said  to 
Edmonia  as  they  sat  together  in  the  porch  one 
evening :  "  I  am  coming  often  to  Branton,  be- 
cause I  want  you  to  learn  to  know  me  and  like 
me.  I  have  matters  in  hand  concerning  which 
I  very  much  want  your  counsel.  Will  you  mind 
giving  it  to  me  if  I  behave  well,  resist  the 
strong  temptation  to  pay  court  to  you  as  a  lover, 
and  teach  you  after  a  while  to  feel  that  I  am 
a  friend  to  whom  your  kindliness  will  owe 
counsel  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  put  matters  on  that  level.  Cousin 
Arthur,  and  keep  them  there  I  shall  be  glad  to 

112 


A  DINNER  AT  BRANTON 

have  it  so.  I  don't  know  that  I  can  give  you 
advice  of  any  account,  but,  at  any  rate,  as  I 
think  your  impulses  will  be  right  and  kindly,  I 
can  give  you  sympathy,  and  that  is  often  a  help, 
rit  give  you  my  opinion  also,  whenever  you 
want  it — especially  if  I  think  you  are  going 
wrong  and  need  admonition.  Then  Fll  put  on 
all  the  airs  of  a  Minerva  and  advise  you  orac- 
ularly. But  remember  that  you  must  win  all 
this,  by  coming  often  to  Branton  and — and  the 
rest  of  it." 

"  I'll  come  often  to  Branton,  be  sure  of 
that,"  he  answered.  But  he  did  not  feel  him- 
self quite  strong  enough  of  purpose,  to  promise 
that  he  would  not  make  love  to  the  mistress 
of  the  mansion. 

At  the  dinner  each  gentleman  had  a  joint  or 
a  pair  of  fowls  before  him  to  carve,  and  every 
gentleman  in  that  time  and  country  was  con- 
fidently expected  to  know  how  to  carve  what- 
ever dish  there  might  be  assigned  to  him. 
Carving  was  deemed  as  much  a  necessary  part 
of  every  gentleman's  education  as  was  the 
ability  to  ride  and  shoot  and  catch  a  mettle- 
some fish.  The  barbarity  of  having  the  joints 
clumsily  cut  up  by  a  butler  at  a  side  table  and 
served  half  cold  in  an  undiscriminating  way, 
had  not  then  come  into  being.    Dining  was  a 

"3 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

fine  art  in  that  time  and  country,  a  social  func- 
tion, in  which  each  carver  had  the  joy  of  select- 
ing tidbits  for  those  he  served,  and  arranging 
them  daintily  and  attractively  upon  the  plate 
brought  to  him  for  that  purpose  by  a  well 
trained  servant.  Especially  each  took  pleasure 
in  remembering  and  ministering  to  the  particu- 
lar fancies  of  all  the  rest  in  the  act  of  help- 
ing. Refined  people  had  not  yet  borrowed  from 
barbaric  Russians  the  practice  of  having  them- 
selves fed,  like  so  many  cattle,  by  servitors  ap- 
pointed to  deal  out  rations. 

There  was  no  wine  served  with  the  meal. 
That  came  later  in  its  proper  place.  Each  gen- 
tleman had  been  invited  to  partake  of  a 
"  toddy  " — a,  mild  admixture  of  whiskey, 
water,  sugar  and  nutmeg — before  sitting  down 
to  the  meal.  After  that  there  was  no  drink 
served  until  the  meal  was  over.  When  the 
cloth  was  removed  after  the  dessert,  there  came 
upon  the  polished  board  some  dishes  of  walnuts 
of  which  all  partook  sparingly.  Then  came 
the  wine— old  sherry  or,  if  the  house  were  a 
fortunate  one,  rare  old  Madeira,  served  from 
richly  carved  decanters,  in  daintily  stemmed 
cut  glasses.  The  wine  was  poured  into  all  the 
glasses.  Then  the  host  proposed  "  the  ladies," 
and  all  drank,  standing.     Then  the  host  gal- 

114 


A  DINNER  AT  BRANTON 

lantly  held  the  broad  dining  room  door  open 
while  the  ladies,  bowing  and  smiling,  gra- 
ciously withdrew.  After  that  politics  and  wal- 
nuts, religion  and  raisins,  sherry  and  society 
divided  the  attention  of  the  gentlemen  with 
cigars  that  had  been  kept  for  a  dozen  years  or 
more  drying  in  a  garret.  For  the  modern 
practice  of  soaking  cigars  in  a  refrigerator  and 
smoking  them  limp  and  green  was  an  un- 
dreamed of  insult  to  the  tongues  and  palates 
of  men  who  knew  all  about  tobacco  and  who 
smoked  for  flavor,  not  for  the  satisfaction  of 
a  fierce  and  intemperate  craving  for  narcotic 
effect. 

After  half  an  hour  or  so  over  the  rich,  nutty 
wine,  the  gentlemen  joined  the  gentlewomen  in 
the  drawing  room,  the  hallway  or  the  porches 
according  to  the  weather,  and  a  day  well  spent 
ended  with  a  light  supper  at  nine  o'clock. 
Then  there  was  an  ordering  of  horses  and  a 
making  of  adieux  on  the  part  of  such  of  the 
gentlemen  as  were  not  going  to  remain  over 
night. 

"  You  will  stay.  Cousin  Arthur,"  Edmonia 
said.  "  You  will  stay,  of  course.  You  and  I 
have  a  compact  to  carry  out.  We  are  to  learn 
to  like  each  other.  It  will  be  very  easy,  I 
think,  but  we  must  set  to  work  at  it  immedi- 

115 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 


ately.    Will  you  ride  with  me  in  the  morning 
— soon  ?  " 

She  called  him  "  Cousin  Arthur,"  of  course. 
Had  not  a  distant  relative  of  his  once  married 
a  still  more  distant  kinswoman  of  her  own? 
It  would  have  been  deemed  in  Virginia  a  dis- 
tinct discourtesy  in  her  not  to  call  him 
'^  Cousin  Arthur." 


Ii6 


IX 

DOROTHY'S  CASE 

^FTER  a  few  weeks  of  work  Arthur 

/J      Brent's  laboratory  was  ready  for  use, 

•^  -^       with  all  its  apparatus  in  place  and  all 

its  reserve  supply  of  chemicals  safely  bestowed 

in  a  small,  log  built  hut  standing  apart. 

His  books  too  had  been  brought  to  the  house 
and  unpacked.  He  provided  shelf  room  for 
them  in  the  various  apartments,  in  the  broad 
hallway,  and  even  upon  the  stairs.  There  were 
a  multitude  of  volumes — largely  the  accumu- 
lations of  years  of  study  and  travel  on  his  own 
and  his  father's  part.  The  collection  included 
all  that  was  best  in  scientific  literature,  and 
much  that  was  best  in  history,  in  philosophy 
and  in  helles  lettres.  To  this  latter  department 
he  had  ordered  large  additions  made  when  send- 
ing for  his  books — this  with  an  eye  to  Dor- 
othy's education. 

There  was  already  a  library  of  some  import- 
ance at  Wyanoke,  the  result  of  irregular  buy- 
ing during  two  hundred  years  past.    Swift  was 

"7 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

there  in  time  stained  vellum.  The  poets,  from 
Dryden  and  Pope  to  the  last  quarter  of  the 
eighteenth  century  were  well  represented,  and 
there  were  original  editions  of  "  Childe  Har- 
old," and  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Review- 
ers "  on  the  shelves.  Scott  was  present  in 
leathern  cuirass  of  binding — ^both  in  his  novels 
and  in  his  poems.  But  there  was  not  a  line  of 
Coleridge  or  Wordsworth  or  Shelley  or  Rog- 
ers or  Campbell  or  John  Keats,  not  a  sugges- 
tion of  Matthew  Arnold.  Tennyson,  Browning 
and  their  fellows  were  completely  absent, 
though  Bailey's  "  Festus  "  was  there  to  repre- 
sent modem  poetry. 

The  latest  novels  in  the  list,  apart  from 
Scott,  were  "  Evelina,"  "  The  Children  of  The 
Abbey,"  "Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  "Scottish 
Chiefs  "  and  some  others  of  their  kind.  But 
all  the  abominations  of  Smollett,  all  the  gross- 
ness  of  Fielding,  all  the  ribaldry  of  Richardson, 
and  all  the  sentimental  indecency  of  Laurence 
Sterne  were  present  in  full  force — on  top 
shelves,  out  of  consideration  for  maidenly 
modesty. 

In  history  there  were  Josephus  and  Rollin, 
and  scarcely  anything  else.  Hume  was  ex- 
cluded because  of  his  scepticism,  and  Gibbon 
had  been  passed  over  as  a  monster  of  unbelief. 

ii8 


DOROTHrS  CASE 

Arthur  found  that  Dorothy  had  browsed 
somewhat  in  this  old  Hbrary,  particularly 
among  the  British  Essayists  and  in  some  old 
volumes  of  Dramas.  Her  purity  had  revolted 
at  Fielding,  Smollett  and  their  kind,  and  she 
had  found  the  sentimentalities  of  Miss  Burney 
insipid.  But  she  knew  her  "  Don  Quixote  "  al- 
most by  heart,  and  "  Gil  Bias  "  even  more  min- 
utely. She  had  read  much  of  Montaigne  and 
something  of  Rousseau  in  the  original  also,  and 
the  Latin  classics  were  her  familiars.  For  her 
father  had  taught  her  from  infancy,  French 
arid  Latin,  not  after  the  manner  of  the  schools, 
as  grammatical  gymnastics,  but  with  an  eye 
single  to  the  easy  and  intelligent  reading  of  the 
rich  literatures  that  those  languages  offer  to  the 
initiated.  The  girl  knew  scarcely  a  single  rule 
of  Latin  grammar — in  text  book  terms  at  least 
— ^but  she  read  her  Virgil  and  Horace  almost  as 
easily  as  she  did  her  Bible. 

It  was  with  definite  reference  to  the  deficien- 
cies of  this  and  other  old  plantation  libraries, 
that  Arthur  Brent  ordered  books.  He  selected 
Doroth/s  own  sitting  room — opening  off  her 
chamber — as  the  one  in  which  to  bestow  the 
treasures  of  modem  literature — ^Tennyson, 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  Bulwer,  Coleridge,  Keats, 
Rogers,  Campbell,  Shelley  and  their  later  sue 

no 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

cessors — Longfellow,  Bryant,  Willis,  Halleck, 
and  above  all  Irving,  Paulding  and  Hawthorne. 

In  arranging  these  treasures  in  Dorothy^s 
outer  room,  Arthur  resorted  to  a  little  trick  or 
two.  He  would  pick  up  a  volume  with  osten- 
sible purpose  of  placing  it  upon  a  shelf,  but 
would  turn  to  a  favorite  passage  and  read  a 
little  aloud.  Then,  suddenly  stopping,  he  would 
say: — 

"  But  you'll  read  all  that  for  yourself,"  and 
would  add  some  bit  of  comment  or  suggestion 
of  a  kind  to  awaken  the  girl's  attention  and  at- 
tract her  to  the  author  in  question.  Before  he 
had  finished  arranging  the  books  in  that  room 
Dorothy  was  almost  madly  eager  to  read  all  of 
them.  A  new  world  was  opening  to  her,  a 
world  of  modern  thought  far  more  congenial 
to  her  mind  than  the  older  literature  which 
alone  she  had  known  before.  Here  was  a  liter- 
ature of  which  she  had  scarcely  known  even 
the  existence.  It  was  a  clean,  wholesome,  well- 
aired  literature ;  a  literature  founded  upon  mod- 
ern ways  of  thinking;  a  literature  that  dealt 
with  modern  life  and  character;  a  literature 
instinct  with  the  thought  and  sentiment  of  her 
own  time.  The  girl  was  at  once  bewildered 
by  the  extent  of  it  and  fascinated  by  its  charm. 
Her  sleep  was  cut  short  in  her  eagerness  to 

on  "O 


DOROTHrS  CASE 

read  it  all.  Its  influence  upon  her  mind  and 
character  became  at  once  and  insistently  mani- 
fest. 

"  Here  endeth  the  first  lesson,'*  quoted  Ar- 
thur Brent  when  he  had  thus  placed  all  that  is 
best  in  modern  literature  temptingly  at  this 
eager  girl's  hand.  "  It  will  puzzle  them  to  stop 
her  from  thinking  now,"  he  added,  "  or  to  con- 
fine her  thinking  within  their  strait-laced  con- 
ventions.   Now  for  science.'* 

The  age  of  Darwin,  Huxley  and  Herbert 
Spencer  had  not  yet  come,  in  1859.     Haeckel 
was   still  unheard  of,   outside  of  Berlin  and 
Jena.     The  science  of  biology,  in  which  all 
other  science  finds  its  fruition  and  justifies  its 
being,  was  then  scarcely  "  a  homing."    Other- 
wise, Arthur  Brent  would  have  made  of  Dor- 
othy's amateurish  acquaintance  with  botany  the 
basis  of  a  systematic  study,  leading  up  to  that 
conception  which  came  later  to  science,  that  all 
life  is  one,  whether  animal  or  vegetable;  that 
species  are  the  results  of    differentiation    by 
selection  and  development,  and  that  the  scheme 
of  nature  is  one  uniform,  consistent  whole,  com- 
posed of  closely  related  parts.    But  this  thought 
had  not  yet  come  to  science.  Darwin's  "  Origin 
of  Species  "  was  not  published  until  later  in  that 
year,  Wallace  was  off  on  his  voyages  and  had 

121 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

not  yet  reached  those  all  embracing  conclusions. 
Huxley  was  still  only  a  young  man  of  promise. 
Virchow  was  bound  in  those  trammels  of  tra- 
dition from  which  he  was  destined  never  quite 
to  disentangle  himself,  even  with  the  stimulus 
of  Haeckel,  his  wonderful  pupil.  But  the 
thought  that  has  since  made  science  alive  had 
been  dreamed  of  even  then.  There  were  sug- 
gestions of  it  in  the  manuscripts, — written 
backwards — of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  Goethe 
had  foreshadowed  much  of  it. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  for  such  sake  or 
with  a  purpose  so  broad  that  Arthur  Brent  set 
out  to  interest  Dorothy  South  in  science.  His 
only  purpose  was  to  teach  her  to  think,  to  im- 
plant in  her  mind  that  divine  thirst  for  sound 
knowledge  which  he  clearly  recognized  as  a 
specific  remedy  for  conventional  narrowness  of 
mind. 

The  girl  was  quick  to  learn  rudiments  and 
general  principles,  and  in  laboratory  work  she 
soon  surpassed  her  master  as  a  maker  of  ex- 
periments. In  such  work  her  habits  of  exacti- 
tude stood  her  in  good  stead,  and  her  consci- 
entiousness had  its  important  part  to  play. 

But  science  did  not  become  a  very  serious 
occupation  with  Dorothy.  It  was  rather  play 
than  study  at  first,  and  when  she  had  acquired 

122 


DOROTHrS  CASE 

some  insight  into  it,  so  that  its  suggestions 
served  to  explain  the  phenomena  about  her,  she 
was  fairly  well  content.  She  had  no  passion 
for  original  research  and  of  that  Arthur  was 
rather  glad.  "  That  sort  of  thing  is  mascu- 
line," he  reflected,  "  and  she  is  altogether  a 
woman.  I  don't  want  her  to  grow  into  any- 
thing else." 

But  to  her  passion  for  literature  there  was 
no  limit.  "  Literature  concerns  itself  with 
people,"  she  said  to  Arthur  one  day,  "  and  I 
care  more  for  people  than  for  gases  and  bases 
and  reactions." 

But  literature,  in  its  concern  for  people,  re- 
cords the  story  of  human  life  through  all  the 
centuries,  and  the  development  of  human 
thought.  It  includes  history  and  speculative 
philosophy  and  Dorothy  manifested  almost  a 
passion  for  these. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  trouble  first  arose. 
So  long  as  the  girl  was  supposed  to  be  devour- 
ing novels  and  poetry,  the  community  admired 
and  approved.  But  when  it  was  noised  abroad 
that  she  knew  Gibbon  as  familiarly  as  she  did 
her  catechism,  that  she  had  read  Hume's  Essays 
and  Locke  on  the  Understanding,  together  with 
the  elder  Mill,  and  Jeremy  Bentham  and  much 
else  of  like  kind,  the  wonder  was  not  unmixed 

123 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

with  doubt  as  to  the  fitness  of  such  reading  fof 
a  young  girl. 

For  a  time  even  Aunt  Polly  shared  this  doubt 
but  she  was  quickly  cured  of  it  when  Madison 
Peyton,  with  his  customary  impertinence  pro- 
tested. Aunt  Polly  was  not  accustomed  to 
agree  in  opinion  with  Madison  Peyton,  and  she 
resented  the  suggestion  that  the  girl  could  come 
to  any  harm  while  under  her  care.  So  she  com- 
bated Pe)don's  view  after  a  destructive  fashion. 
When  he  spoke  of  this  literature  as  unfit,  Aunt 
Polly  meekly  asked  him,  "Why?"  and  natu- 
rally he  could  not  answer,  having  never  read  a 
line  of  it  in  his  life.  He  sought  to  evade  the 
question  but  Aunt  Polly  was  relentless,  greatly 
to  the  amusement  of  John  Meaux  and  Col.  Ma- 
jors, the  lawyer  of  the  old  families.  She  in- 
sisted upon  his  telling  her  which  of  the  books 
were  dangerous  for  Dorothy  to  read.  "  How 
else  can  I  know  which  to  take  away  from  her?  " 
she  asked.  When  at  last  he  unwisely  ventured 
to  mention  Gibbon — having  somehow  got  the 
impression,  which  was  common  then,  that  the 
"  Decline  and  Fall "  was  a  sceptical  work. 
Aunt  Polly — who  had  been  sharing  Dorothy's 
reading  of  it, — plied  him  with  closer  questions. 
"  In  what  way  is  it  harmful  ?  "  she  asked, 

124 


DOROTHrS  CASE 

and  then,  quite  innocently,  "  what  is  it  all  about 
any  how,  Madison  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  we  can't  go  into  that,"  he  said 
evasively. 

"  But  why  not?  That  is  precisely  what  we 
must  go  into  if  we  are  to  direct  Dorothy's  read- 
ing properly.  What  is  this  book  that  you  think 
she  ought  not  to  read?  What  does  it  treat  of? 
What  is  there  in  it  that  you  object  to?  " 

Thus  baited  on  a  subject  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing about,  Peyton  grew  angry,  though  he  knew 
it  would  not  do  for  him  to  manifest  the  fact. 
He  unwisely,  but  with  an  air  of  very  superior 
wisdom,  blurted  out : — 

"  If  you  had  read  that  book,  Cousin  Polly, 
you  wouldn't  like  to  make  it  the  subject  of  con- 
versation." 

"  So?  "  asked  the  old  lady.  "  It  is  in  con- 
sideration of  my  ignorance  then  that  you  gra- 
ciously pardon  my  discretion  ?  " 

"  It's  a  very  proper  ignorance.  I  respect  you 
for  never  having  indulged  in  such  reading," 
he  answered. 

"Then  you  must  respect  me  less,"  calmly 
responded  the  old  lady,  "  for  I  have  read  the 
book  and  I'm  reading  it  a  second  time.  I  don't 
see  that  it  has  hurt  me,  but  I'll  bow  to  your 

125 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

superior  wisdom  if  you'll  only  tell  me  what 
there  is  in  the  book  that  is  likely  to  undermine 
my  morals." 

The  laugh  that  followed  from  Col.  Majors 
and  John  Meaux — for  the  idea  that  anything, 
literary  or  otherwise,  could  undermine  the  vig- 
orous morals  of  this  high  bred  dame  was  too 
ludicrous  to  be  resisted — nettled  Peyton  anew. 
Still  further  losing  his  temper  he  broke  out : 

"  How  should  I  know  what  is  in  the  book? 
I  never  read  such  stuff.  But  I  know  it  is  unfit 
for  a  young  girl,  and  in  this  case  I  have  a  right 
to  dictate.  I  tell  you  now,  Cousin  Polly,  that 
I  will  not  have  Dorothy's  mind  perverted  by 
such  reading.  My  interest  in  this  case  is  para- 
mount and  I  mean  to  assert  it.  I  have  been 
glad  to  have  her  with  you  for  the  sake  of  the 
social  and  moral  training  I  expected  you  to  give 
her.  But  I  tell  you  now,  that  if  you  don't 
stop  all  this  kind  of  reading  and  all  this  slopping 
in  a  laboratory,  trying  to  learn  atheistical 
science — for  all  science  is  atheistical  as  you  well 
know — " 

"  Pardon  me,  Madison,"  broke  in  the  old 
lady,  "  I  didn't  know  that.  Won't  you  explain 
it  to  me,  please?" — this  with  the  meekness  of 
a  reverent  disciple,  a  meekness  which  Peyton 
knew  to  be  a  mockery. 

126 


VOROTHrS  CASE 

"Oh,  everybody  knows  that,"  testily  an- 
swered the  man.  "  And  it  is  indecent  as  well. 
I  hear  that  Arthur  has  been  teaching  Dorothy 
a  lot  about  anatomy  and  that  sort  of  thing 
that  no  woman  ought  to  know,  and — " 

"  Why  shouldn't  a  woman  know  that?" 
asked  Aunt  Polly,  still  delivering  her  hot  shot 
as  if  they  had  been  balls  of  the  zephyr  she  was 
knitting  into  a  nubia.  "  Does  it  do  her  any 
harm  to  know  how — " 

"Oh,  please  don't  ask  me  to  go  into  that, 
Cousin  Polly,"  the  man  impatiently  responded. 
"  You  see  it  isn't  a  proper  subject  of  conversa- 
tion." 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  ?  I  didn't  know,  you  see.  And 
as  you  will  not  enlighten  me,  let  us  return  to 
what  you  were  about  to  say.  I  beg  pardon  for 
interrupting." 

"  I  don't  remember  what  I  was  going  to  say," 
said  Peyton,  anxious  to  end  the  discussion. 
"  Besides  it  was  of  no  consequence.  Let's  talk 
of  something  else." 

"  Not  yet,  please,"  placidly  answered  the  old 
lady.  "  I  remember  that  you  were  about  to 
threaten  me  with  something.  Now  I  never 
was  threatened  in  my  life,  and  I'm  really  anx- 
ious to  know  how  it  feels.  So  please  go  on 
and  threaten  me,  Madison." 

127 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  I  never  thought  of  threatening  you,  Cousin 
Polly,  I  assure  you.  You're  mistaken  in  that, 
surely." 

*'  Not  at  all.  You  said  you  had  been  pleased 
to  have  Dorothy  under  my  charge.  I  thank  you 
for  saying  that.  But  you  added  that  if  I  didn't 
stop  her  reading  and  her  scientific  studies  you'd 
— you  didn't  say  just  what  you'd  do.  That  is 
because  I  interrupted.  I  beg  pardon  for  doing 
so,  but  now  you  must  complete  the  sentence." 

"  Oh,  I  only  meant  that  if  the  girl  was  to  be 
miseducated  at  Wyanoke,  I  should  feel  myself 
obliged  to  take  her  away  to  my  own  house 
and—" 

"  You  need  not  continue,"  answered  the  old 
lady,  rising  in  stately  wrath.  '*  You  have  said 
quite  enough.  Now  let  me  make  my  reply.  It 
is  simply  that  if  you  ever  attempt  to  put  such 
an  affront  as  that  upon  me,  you'll  wish  you  had 
never  been  born." 

She  instantly  withdrew  from  the  piazza  of 
the  house  in  which  all  were  guests,  John  Meaux 
gallantly  accompanying  her.  She  paid  no  more 
heed  to  Peyton's  clamorous  protestations  of 
apology  than  to  the  buzzing  of  the  bees  that 
were  plundering  the  honeysuckles  of  their 
sweets. 

When  she  had  gone  Peyton  began  to  realize 

128 


DOROTHrS  CASE 

the  mistake  he  had  made.  In  that  Col.  Majors, 
who  was  left  alone  with  him,  greatly  assisted 
him.  In  the  slow,  deliberate  way  in  which  he 
always  spoke,  Col.  Majors  said : 

"  You  know,  Peyton,  that  I  do  not  often  vol- 
unteer advice  before  I  am  asked  to  give  it,  but 
in  this  case  I  am  going  to  do  so.  It  seems  to 
me  that  you  have  overlooked  certain  facts 
which  present  themselves  to  my  mind,  as  im- 
portant, and  of  which  I  think  the  courts  would 
take  cognizance." 

"  Oh,  I  only  meant  to  give  Cousin  Polly  a 
hint,"  broke  in  Peyton.  "  Of  course  I  didn't 
seriously  mean  that  I  would  take  the  girl  away 
from  her." 

"It  is  well  that  you  did  not,"  answered  the 
lawyer,  "  for  the  sufficient  reason  that  you 
could  not  do  that  if  you  were  determined  upon 
it." 

"  Why,  surely,"  Peyton  protested.  "  I  have 
a  right  to  look  after  the  girl's  welfare  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  none  whatever." 

"  Why,  you  forget  the  arrangement  between 
me  and  Dr.  South." 

"  Not  at  all.  That  arrangement  was  at  best 
a  contract  without  consideration,  and  therefore 
nonenforcible.  Even  if  it  had  been  reduced  to 
writing  and  formally  executed,  it  would  be  so 

129 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

much  waste  paper  in  the  eyes  of  a  court.  Dor- 
othy is  a  ward  in  chancery.  The  court  would 
never  permit  the  enforcement  of  a  contract  of 
that  kind  upon  her,  so  long  as  she  is  under  age ; 
and  when  she  attains  her  majority  she  will  be 
absolutely  free,  if  I  know  anything  of  the  law, 
to  repudiate  an  arrangement  disposing  of  her 
life,  made  by  others  without  her  consent." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  on  a  mere  whim  of  her 
own,  that  girl  can  upset  the  advantageous  ar- 
rangements made  for  her  by  her  father  and 
undo  the  whole  thing?  " 

"  I  mean  precisely  that.  But  pardon  me,  the 
time  has  not  come  to  consider  that  question. 
What  I  would  impress  upon  yot^r  mind  at  pres- 
ent is  that  on  the  whole  you'd  better  make  your 
peace  with  Miss  Polly.  She  has  the  girl  in 
charge,  and  if  you  antagonize  her,  she  may 
perhaps  train  Miss  Dorothy  to  repudiate  the 
arrangement  altogether.  In  that  case  you  may 
not  wish  that  you  had  never  been  born,  as  Miss 
Polly  put  the  matter,  but  you'll  wish  that  you 
hadn't  offended  the  dear  old  lady." 

"  Then  I  must  take  the  girl  away  from  her 
at  once,"  exclaimed  Peyton  in  alarm.  "  I 
mustn't  leave  her  for  another  day  under  Cousin 
Polly's  influence." 

"But  you  cannot  take  her  away,  Peyton. 

130 


DOROTHrS  CASE 

That  is  what  I  am  trying  to  impress  upon  your 
mind." 

"  But  why  not  ?     Surely  I  have  a  right — " 

"  You  have  absolutely  no  rights  in  the  prem- 
ises. The  will  of  the  late  Dr.  South,  made 
Robert  Brent  Dorothy's  guardian." 

"  But  Robert  Brent  is  dead,"  broke  in  Pey- 
ton, impatientl} ,  "  and  I  am  to  be  the  girl's 
guardian  after  the  next  term  of  the  court." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  answered  the  lawyer.  ''  The 
court  usually  allows  the  ward  to  choose  her 
guardian  in  such  a  case,  and  if  you  strongly 
commend  yourself  to  her,  she  may  choose  you. 
But  I  may  be  allowed  to  suggest  that  that  will 
depend  a  good  deal  upon  what  advice  Miss 
Polly  may  give  her.  She  is  very  fond  of  Miss 
Polly,  and  apt  to  be  guided  by  her.  However 
that  again  is  a  matter  that  has  no  bearing  upon 
the  question  in  hand.  Even  were  you  already 
appointed  guardian  of  Miss  Dorothy's  estate 
you  could  not  take  the  girl  away  from  Miss 
Polly." 

"  Why  not  ?  Has  a  guardian  no  author- 
ity?" 

"  Oh,  yes — a  very  large  authority.  But  it 
happens  in  this  case  that  by  the  terms  of  the 
late  Dr.  South's  will,  Miss  Polly  is  made  sole 
and  absolute  guardian  of  Miss  Dorothy's  per- 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

son  until  such  time  as  she  shall  come  of  age 
or  previously  marry  with  Miss  Polly's  consent. 
Neither  Robert  Brent,  during  his  life,  nor  any 
person  appointed  to  succeed  him  as  guardian  of 
Miss  Dorothy's  estate,  had,  or  has,  or  can  have 
the  smallest  right  to  take  her  away  from  the 
guardian  of  her  person.  That  could  be  done 
only  by  going  into  court  and  showing  that  the 
guardian  of  the  person  was  of  immoral  life  and 
unfit  to  have  charge  of  a  child.  It  would  be 
risky,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  to  suggest  such  a 
thing  as  that  in  the  case  of  Miss  Polly,  wouldn't 
it?  She  has  no  very  near  relatives  but  there 
isn't  a  young  or  a  middle-aged  man  in  this 
county  who  wouldn't,  in  that  case,  adopt  the 
relation  of  nearest  male  relation  to  her  and 
send  inconvenient  billets-doux  to  you  by  the 
hands  of  insistent  friends." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  nonsense,"  answered  Peyton. 
"  Of  course  nobody  would  think  of  such  a 
thing  as  questioning  Cousin  Polly's  eminent 
fitness  to  bring  up  a  girl." 

"  And  yet  that  is  precisely  what  you  did,  by 
implication  at  least,  a  little  while  ago.  My 
advice  to  you  is  to  repair  your  blunder  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment." 

Peyton  clearly  saw  the  necessity  of  doing  so, 
especially  now  that  he  had  learned  that  Dorothy 

132 


DOROTHrS  CASE 

must  in  any  case  remain  in  Aunt  Polly's  charge. 
It  would  ruin  all  his  plans  to  have  Aunt  Polly 
antagonize  them  even  passively.  But  how  to 
atone  for  his  error  was  a  difficult  problem. 
With  anybody  else  he  would  have  tried  his 
favorite  tactics  of  "  laughing  the  thing  off/' 
treating  it  as  a  jest  and  being  more  good  na- 
turedly  insolent  than  ever.  But  with  Aunt 
Polly  he  could  not  do  that.  She  was  much 
too  shrewdly  penetrative  to  be  deceived  by  such 
measures  and  much  too  sensitively  self-respect- 
ful to  tolerate  familiarity  as  a  substitute  for  an 
apology. 

Moreover  he  knew  that  he  needed  something 
more  than  Aunt  Polly's  forgiveness.  He 
wanted  her  cooperation.  For  the  dread  which 
had  inspired  his  blundering  outbreak,  was  not 
mainly,  if  at  all,  a  dread  of  English  literature 
as  a  perverting  educational  force.  He  knew 
next  to  nothing  of  literature  and  he  cared  even 
less.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would 
never  have  bothered  himself  over  any  question 
of  Dorothy's  reading.  But  Dorothy  was  doing 
her  reading  under  the  tutelage  and  with  the 
sympathy  of  Arthur  Brent,  and  Madison  Pey- 
ton foresaw  that  the  close,  daily  association  of 
the  girl — child  as  she  was — with  a  man  so 
gifted  and  so  pleasing  was  likely,  after  a  year 

133 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

or  two  at  least  to  grow  into  a  warmer  attach- 
ment. And  even  if  that  should  not  happen,  he 
felt  that  her  education  under  the  influence  of 
such  a  man  might  give  her  ideals  and  standards 
which  wouM  not  be  satisfied  by  the  life  plans 
made  for  her  between  himself  and  her  father. 

It  was  not  to  remove  her  from  Aunt  Polly's 
control,  or  even  to  save  her  from  too  much 
serious  reading — though  he  was  suspicious  of 
that — that  he  cared.  He  wanted  to  keep  her 
away  from  Arthur  Brent's  influence,  and  it  was 
in  a  blundering  attempt  to  bring  that  about  that 
he  had  managed  to  offend  Aunt  Polly,  making 
a  possible  enemy  of  his  most  necessary  ally. 

It  was  with  a  perturbed  mind  therefore  that 
he  rode  away  from  the  hospitable  house  where 
the  discussion  had  occurred,  making  some 
hastily  manufactured  excuse  to  the  hostess,  for 
not  remaining  to  dinner. 


134 


X 

DOROTHY  VOLUNTEERS 

y^LL  this  while  Arthur  Brent  was  a  very 
/J  busy  man.  It  was  true,  as  Madison 
-^  -^  Peyton  had  said,  that  he  knew  Httle 
of  planting,  but  he  had  two  strong  coadjutors 
in  the  cultivation  of  his  crops.  John  Meaux — 
perhaps  in  unconscious  spite  of  Peyton — fre- 
quently rode  over  to  Wyanoke  and  visited  all 
its  fields  in  company  with  the  young  master  of 
the  plantation.  There  was  not  much  in  com- 
mon between  Meaux  and  Arthur,  not  much 
to  breed  a  close  intimacy.  Meaux  was  an  edu- 
cated man,  within  the  rather  narrow  limits 
established  by  the  curriculum  at  West  Point — 
for  Robert  E.  Lee  had  not  yet  done  his  work 
of  enlargement  and  betterment  at  the  military 
academy  when  Meaux  was  a  cadet  in  that  in- 
stitution— but  he  was  not  a  man  of  much  read- 
ing, and  intellectually  he  was  indolent.  Never- 
theless he  was  a  pleasant  enough  companion, 
his  friendship  for  Arthur  was  genuine,  and  he 
knew  more  about  the  arts  of  planting  than  any- 

135 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

body  else  in  that  region.  He  freely  gave  Ar- 
thur the  benefit  of  his  judgment  and  skill 
greatly  to  the  advantage  of  the  growing  crops 
at  Wyanoke. 

Archer  Bannister,  too,  was  often  Arthur*s 
guest.  He  came  and  went  as  he  pleased,  some- 
times remaining  for  three  or  four  days  at  a 
time,  sometimes  staying  only  long  enough  to 
advise  Arthur  to  have  a  tobacco  lot  cut  before 
a  rain  should  come  to  wash  off  the  "  molasses  " 
— as  the  thick  gum  on  a  ripening  tobacco  leaf 
was  called.  He  was  himself  a  skilful  planter 
and  his  almost  daily  counsel  was  of  great  value 
to  Arthur's  inexperience. 

But  it  was  not  of  things  agricultural  only 
that  these  two  were  accustomed  to  talk  with 
each  other.  There  had  quickly  grown  up  be- 
tween them  an  almost  brotherly  intimacy.  They 
were  men  of  congenial  tastes  and  close  intellec- 
tual sympathies,  and  there  was  from  the  first 
a  strong  liking  on  either  side  which  was  refer- 
able rather  to  similarity  of  character  than  to 
anything  merely  intellectual.  Both  men  cher- 
ished high  ideals  of  conduct,  and  both  were 
loyal  to  those  ideals.  Both  were  thoroughly 
educated,  and  both  had  been  broadened  by 
travel.  Both  indulged  in  intellectual  activities 
not  always  attractive  even  to  men  of  culture. 

136 


VOROTHT  VOLUNTEERS 

Arthur  loved  science  with  the  devotion  of  a 
disciple;  Archer  rejoiced  in  a  study  of  its  con- 
clusions and  their  consequences  rather  than  of 
its  processes,  its  methods,  its  details.  Above 
all,  so  far  as  intellectual  sympathies  were  con- 
cerned, both  young  men  were  almost  passion- 
ately devoted  to  literature.  Between  two  such 
men,  thrown  together  in  that  atmosphere  of 
leisure  which  was  the  crowning  glory  of  Vir- 
ginia plantation  life,  it  was  inevitable  that 
something  more  and  stronger  than  ordinary 
friendship  should  grow  up.  And  between  them 
stood  also  Archer's  sister  Edmonia — a  woman 
whom  both  held  in  tender  affection,  the  one 
loving  her  as  a  sister,  the  other  as — he  scarcely 
knew  what.  She  shared  thci  ideas,  the  im- 
pulses, the  high  principles  of  both,  and  in  her 
feminine  way  she  shared  also  their  intellectual 
tastes  and  aspirations. 

Arthur  had  still  another  coadjutor  in  his 
management  of  affairs,  in  the  person  of  Dor- 
othy. Throughout  the  summer  and  autumn 
the  girl  rode  with  him  every  morning  during 
the  hours  before  breakfast,  and,  in  her  queer, 
half  childish,  half  womanly  way,  she  instructed 
him  mightily  in  many  things.  Her  habits  of 
close  observation  had  given  her  a  large  and  ac- 
curate knowledge  of  plantation  affairs  which 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

was  invaluable  to  him,  covering-  as  it  did  many 
points  of  detail  left  unmentioned  by  Meaux 
and  Bannister. 

But  his  interest  in  the  girl  was  chiefly  psycho- 
logical. The  contradiction  he  observed  between 
her  absolutely  child-like  simplicity  and  the 
strangely  sage  and  old  way  she  had  of  thinking 
now  and  then,  interested  him  beyond  measure. 
Her  honesty  was  phenomenal — her  truthful- 
ness astonishing. 

One  morning  as  the  two  rode  together 
through  the  corn  they  came  upon  a  watermelon 
three  fourths  grown.  Instantly  the  girl  slipped 
to  the  ground  with  the  request : — 

"  Lend  me  your  knife,  please." 

He  handed  her  the  knife  wondering  what 
she  would  do  with  it.  After  an  effort  to  open 
it  she  handed  it  back,  saying :  "  Won't  you 
please  open  it  ?  Knives  are  not  fit  for  women's 
use.  Our  thumb  nails  are  not  strong  enough 
to  open  them.  But  we  use  them,  anyhow. 
That's  because  women's  masters  are  not  severe 
enough  with  them." 

Receiving  the  knife  again,  with  a  blade 
opened,  the  girl  stooped  and  quickly  scratched 
Arthur's  initials  "  A.  B.,"  upon  the  melon. 

'*  I've  observed  you  do  that  before,  Dor- 
othy," said  Arthur  as  the  girl  again  mounted 

138 


DOROTHT  VOLUNTEERS 

Chestnut,  without  assistance.  "  Why  do  you 
doit?" 

"  To  keep  the  servants  from  stealing  the 
melon,"  she  replied.  "  Everybody  does  that.  I 
wonder  if  it's  right." 

"  But  how  can  that  keep  a  negro  from  taking 
the  melon  some  dark  night  after  it  is  ripe  and 
secretly  eating  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  because  of  their  ignorance. 
They  are  very  ignorant — much  more  so  than 
you  think,  Cousin  Arthur.  I  may  call  you 
*  Cousin  Arthur,'  may  I  not  ?  You  see  I  al- 
ways called  your  uncle  *  Uncle  Robert,'  and  if 
your  uncle  was  my  uncle,  of  course  you  and  I 
are  cousins.  Besides  I  like  to  call  you  '  Cousin 
Arthur.'  " 

*'  And  I  like  to  have  you  call  me  so.  But 
tell  me  about  the  marking  of  the  watermelon." 

"  Oh,  that's  simple  enough.  When  you  have 
marked  your  initials  on  a  melon,  the  negroes 
know  you  have  seen  it  and  so  they  are  afraid 
to  steal  it." 

"  But  how  should  I  know  who  took  it  ?  " 

"  That's  their  ignorance.  They  never  think 
of  that.  Or  rather  I  suppose  they  think  edu- 
cated people  know  a  great  deal  more  than  they 
do.     I  wonder  if  it  is  right  ?  " 

"  If  what  is  right,  Dorothy?  " 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

"  Why,  to  take  advantage  of  their  ignorance 
in  that  way.  Have  educated  people  a  right  to 
do  that  with  ignorant  people  ?    Is  it  fair  ?  '* 

"  I  see  your  point,  Dorothy,  and  Fm  not  pre- 
pared to  give  you  an  answer,  at  least  in  general 
terms.  But,  at  any  rate,  it  is  right  to  use  smy 
means  we  can  to  keep  people  from  stealing.'* 

"Oh,  yes,  IVe  thought  of  that.  But  is  it 
stealing  for  the  negroes  to  take  a  watermelon 
which  they  have  planted  and  cultivated  ?  They 
do  the  work  on  the  plantation.  Aren't  they 
entitled  to  all  they  want  to  eat  ?  " 

"  Within  reasonable  bounds,  yes,"  answered 
Arthur,  meditatively.  "  They  are  entitled  to  all 
the  wholesome  food  they  need,  and  to  all  the 
warm  clothing,  and  to  comfortable,  whole- 
some quarters  to  live  in.  But  we  must;n't  leave 
the  smoke  house  door  unlocked.  If  we  did  that 
the  dishonest  ones  among  them  would  take  all 
the  meat  and  sell  it,  and  the  rest  would  starve. 
Besides,  the  white  people  are  entitled  to  some- 
thing. They  take  care  of  the  negroes  in  sick- 
ness and  in  childhood  and  in  old  age.  They 
must  feed  and  clothe  them  and  nurse  them  and 
have  doctors  for  them  no  matter  what  it  may 
cost.  It  is  true,  the  negroes  do  the  work  that 
produces  the  food  and  clothing  and  all  the  rest 
of  it,  but  their  masters  contribute  the  intelli- 

140 


DOROTHT  VOLUNTEERS 

gent  management  that  is  quite  as  necessary  as 
the  work.  Imagine  this  plantation,  Dorothy,  or 
your  own  Pocahontas,  left  to  the  negroes.  They 
could  do  as  much -work  as  they  do  now,  but  do 
you  suppose  their  crops  would  feed  them  till 
Christmas  if  there  were  no  white  man  to  man- 
age for  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  Indeed  they  never  would 
make  a  crop.    Still  I  don't  like  the  system." 

"  Neither  do  I,  Dorothy,  but  in  the  present 
state  of  the  public  mind  neither  of  us  must 
say  so." 

"Why  not,  Cousin  Arthur?  Is  there  any 
harm  in  telling  the  truth?" 

"  Sometimes  I  suppose  it  is  better  to  keep 
silence,"  answered  Arthur,  hesitating. 

"  For  women,  yes,"  quickly  responded  the 
girl.  "  But  men  can  fight.  Why  shouldn't  they 
tell  the  truth?" 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  your  distinction, 
Dorothy." 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  she  answered,  "  that  I  un- 
derstand it  myself.  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  now  that  I 
think  of  it.  Women  tell  lies,  of  course,  because 
they  can't  fight.  Or,  if  they  don't  quite  tdl 
lies  they  at  least  keep  silent  whenever  telling 
the  truth  would  make  trouble.  That's  because 
they  can't  fight     Men  can  fight,  and  so  there's 

141 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

not  the  slightest  excuse  for  them  if  they  tell  lies 
or  even  if  they  keep  silent." 

"  But,  Dorothy,  I  don't  yet  understand. 
Women  can't  fight,  of  course,  but  then  they  are 
never  called  upon  to  fight.     Why — " 

*'  That's  just  it,  Cousin  Arthur.  If  a  woman 
speaks  out,  nobody  can  hold  her  responsible. 
But  anybody  can  hold  her  nearest  male  friend 
responsible  and  he  must  fight  to  maintain  what 
she  has  said,  whether  he  thinks  she  was  right  in 
saying  it  or  not.  The  other  day  Jeff.  Peyton 
— Mr.  Madison  Peyton's  son,  you  know, — was 
over  at  Wyanoke,  when  you  had  gone  to  Bran- 
ton.  So  I  had  to  entertain  him."  Dorothy 
did  not  know  that  the  youth  had  been  sent  to 
Wyanoke  by  his  father  for  the  express  purpose 
of  being  entertained  by  herself.  "  I  found  him 
a  pretty  stupid  fellow,  as  I  always  do,  but  as 
he  pretends  to  have  been  a  student  at  the  Uni- 
versity, I  supposed  he  had  read  a  great  deal. 
So  I  talked  to  him  about  Virgil  but  he  knew 
so  little  that  I  asked  him  if  he  had  read  *  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  and  he  told  me  a  deliber- 
ate lie.  He  professed  a  full  acquaintance  with 
that  book,  and  presently  I  found  out  that  he 
had  never  read  a  line  of  it.  I  was  so  shocked 
that  I  forgot  myself.    I  asked  him,  *  Why  did 

142 


DOROTHT  VOLUNTEERS 

you  lie  to  me  ? '  It  was  dreadfully  rude,  of 
course,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  Now  of  course 
he  couldn't  challenge  me  for  that.  But  if  he 
had  been  a  man  of  spirit,  he  would  have  chal- 
lenged you,  and  you  see  how  terribly  wrong 
I  should  have  been  to  involve  you  in  a  quarrel 
of  that  kind.  Of  course  if  I  had  been  a  man, 
instead  of  a  woman — if  I  had  been  answerable 
for  my  words — I  should  have  been  perfectly 
free  to  charge  him  with  lying.  But  what  pos- 
sible right  had  I  to  risk  your  life  in  a  duel  by 
saying  things  that  I  might  as  well  have  left  un- 
said?" 

"  But  you  said  the  other  day,"  responded 
Arthur,  ''  that  you  did  not  believe  in  duelling?  " 

"  Of  course  I  don't.  It  is  a  barbarous  thing. 
But  it  is  the  custom  of  our  country  and  we 
can't  help  it.  I've  noticed  that  if  a  man  fights 
a  duel  on  proper  provocation,  everybody  says 
he  ought  not  to  have  done  it.  But  if  he  refuses 
to  fight,  everybody  says  he's  a  coward.  So, 
under  certain  circumstances,  a  man  in  Virginia 
who  respects  himself  is  absolutely  compelled  to 
fight.  If  Jefferson  Peyton  had  asked  you  to 
meet  him  on  account  of  what  I  said  to  him,  you 
couldn't  have  refused,  could  you,  Cousin  Ar- 
thur?" 

H3 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  I  wouldn't,"  was  all  the  answer  the  young 
man  made ;  but  he  put  a  strong  stress  upon  the 
last  word. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  wouldn't,"  answered  the 
girl,  treating  his  response  as  quite  a  matter  of 
course.  "  But  you  see  now  why  a  woman  must 
keep  silent  where  a  man  should  speak  out.  If 
a  man  tells  the  truth  he  can  be  called  to  account 
for  it ;  so  if  he  is  manly  he  will  tell  it  and  take 
the  consequences.  But  a  woman  has  to  remem- 
ber that  if  she  tells  the  truth,  and  the  truth 
happens  to  be  ugly,  some  man  must  be  shot  at 
for  her  words." 

"  Dorothy,"  asked  Arthur,  with  unusual 
seriousness,  "are  you  afraid  of  anything?" 

"Afraid?     No.     Of  course  not." 

"  If  you  were  needed  very  badly  for  the  sake 
of  other  people— even  negroes — if  you  could 
save  their  lives  and  ease  their  sufferings,  you'd 
want  to  do  it,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course.  Cousin  Arthur.  I've  read 
in  Aunt  Polly's  old  newspapers,  how  you  went 
to  Norfolk  in  the  yellow  fever  time,  and  how 
bravely  you — ^never  mind.  I've  read  all  about 
that,  over  and  over  again,  and  it's  part  of  what 
makes  me  like  you." 

"  But  courage  is  not  expected  of  women." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  quickly  responded  the  girL 

H4 


DOROTHT  VOLUNTEERS 

"  Not  the  courage  of  fighting,  of  course — ^but 
that's  only  because  men  won't  fight  with 
women,  except  in  mean  ways.  Women  are  ex- 
pected to  show  courage  in  other  ways,  and  they 
do  it  too.  In  the  newspapers  that  tell  about 
your  heroism  at  Norfolk,  there  is  a  story  of 
how  one  of  your  nurses  went  always  to  the  most 
dangerous  cases,  and  how,  when  she  died,  you 
officiated  at  her  funeral,  instead  of  the  clergy- 
man who  had  got  scared  and  run  away  like 
a  coward  that  did  not  trust  his  God.  I  re- 
member what  the  newspaper  says  that  you  said 
at  the  grave.  Cousin  Arthur.  I've  got  it  all  by 
heart.  You  said,  at  the  end  of  your  address : — 
'  We  are  accustomed  to  pay  honor  and  to  set 
up  monuments  to  men  who  have  dared,  where 
daring  offered  its  rich  reward  of  fame  and 
glory.  Let  us  reverently  bow  our  heads  and 
abase  our  feeble,  selfish  souls,  in  presence  of 
the  courage  of  this  frail  woman,  who,  in  her 
weakness,  has  achieved  greater  things  in  the 
sight  of  God  than  any  that  the  valor  and 
strength  of  man  have  ever  accomplished  since 
the  foundations  of  the  world  were  laid.  Let 
us  reverently  and  lovingly  make  obeisance  to 
the  courage  of  a  devoted  woman — a  courage 
that  we  men  can  never  hope  to  match.'  You 
see  I  remember  all  that  you  said  then.  Cousin 

»45 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

Arthur,  and  so  you  needn't  tell  me  now  that 
you  do  not  expect  courage  at  the  "hands  of 
women." 

Arthur  made  no  immediate  reply,  and  the 
two  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  time.  After  a 
while,  as  they  neared  the  house  gates,  he  spoke. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "  I  need  your  help  very 
badly.  You  cannot  render  me  the  help  I  want 
without  very  serious  danger  to  yourself.  So 
I  don't  want  you  to  give  me  any  answer  to 
what  I  am  about  to  say  until  tomorrow.  I 
want  you  to  think  the  matter  over  very  care- 
fully first." 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is.  Cousin  Arthur." 

"Why,  I  find  that  we  are  to  have  a  very 
dangerous  epidemic  of  typhoid  fever  among  the 
negroes  here.  When  the  first  case  occurred  ten 
days  ago  I  hoped  that  might  be  all;  but  two 
days  later  I  found  two  more  cases;  day  before 
yesterday  there  were  five  more.  So  it  is  obvious 
that  we  are  to  have  an  epidemic.  All  the  cases 
have  appeared  among  the  field  hands  and  their 
families  out  at  the  far  quarters,  and  so  I  hope 
that  the  house  servants  and  the  people  around 
the  stables  will  esca{)e.  But  the  outbreak  is 
really  very  serious  and  the  disease  is  of  the 
most  virulent  type.  I  must  literally  fight  it 
with  fire.    I  have  already  set  men  at  work  build- 

146 


DOROTHT  VOLUNTEERS 

ing  new  quarters  down  by  the  Silver  Spring,  a 
mile  away  from  the  infected  place,  and  as  soon 
as  I  can  I'm  going  to  move  all  the  people  and 
set  fire  to  all  the  old  quarters.  I've  bought  an 
old  circus  tent  in  Richmond,  and  I  expect  it  by 
express  today.  As  soon  as  it  comes  I'm  going 
to  set  it  up  on  the  Haw  Branch  hill,  and  put  all 
the  sick  people  into  it,  so  as  to  separate  them 
from  those  that  are  well.  As  fast  as  others 
show  syrnptoms  of  the  disease,  I'll  remove  them 
also  to  the  hospital  tent,  and  for  that  purpose 
I  have  ordered  forty  cots  and  a  lot  of  new 
blankets  and  pillows." 

Dorothy  ejaculated  her  sorrow  and  sympathy 
with  the  poor  blacks,  and  quickly  added  the 
question :  *'  What  is  it  that  I  can  do.  Cousin 
Arthur?    Tell  me;  you  know  I  will  do  it." 

"  But,  Dorothy,  dear,  I  don't  want  you  to 
make  up  your  mind  till  you  have  thought  it 
all  over." 

"  My  mind  is  already  made  up.  You  want 
me  to  nurse  these  poor  sick  people,  and  of 
course  I'm  going  to  do  it.  You  are  thinking 
that  the  disease  is  contagious — " 

"  No,  it  is  only  infectious,"  he  broke  in  with 
the  instinct  of  scientific  exactitude  strong  upon 
him. 

"  Well,  anyhow,  it's  catching,  and  you  think 

^^7 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

I  may  catch  it,  and  you  want  me  to  think  out 
whether  I'm  afraid  of  that  or  not.  Very  well. 
I've  already  thought  that  out.  You  are  going 
to  be  with  the  sick  people  night  and  day. 
Cousin  Arthur,  I  am  only  a  girl,  but  I'm  no 
more  a  coward  than  you  are.  Tell  me  what 
I'm  to  do.    It  doesn't  need  any  thinking  out." 

**  But,  Dorothy,  listen  to  me.  These  are  not 
your  people.  If  this  outbreak  had  occurred  at 
Pocahontas,  the  matter  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent. You  might  well  think  that  you  owed 
a  duty  to  the  people  on  your  own  plantation, 
but  you  owe  none  to  these  people  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  I  live  at  Wyanoke.  Besides 
they  are  human  beings  and  they  are  in  need  of 
help.  I  don't  know  how  I  can  help,  but  you 
are  going  to  tell  me,  and  I'm  going  to  do  what 
you  want.    I  will  not  waste  a  day  in  thinking." 

"  But,  my  child,  the  danger  in  this  case  is 
really  very  great.  Indeed  it  is  extremely  prob- 
able that  if  you  do  what  you  propose  to  do, 
you  will  have  the  fever,  and  as  I  have  already 
said,  it  has  assumed  an  unusually  virulent 
form." 

"  It  can't  be  more  dangerous  than  the  yellow 
fever  was  at  Norfolk,  and  you  braved  that  in 
order  to  save  the  lives  of  people  you  had  never 
heard  of — people  to  whom  you  owed  nothing 

148 


DOROTHT  VOLUNTEERS 

whatever.  Cousin  Arthur,  do  you  think  me 
less  brave  than  you  are  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  but—" 

"  Very  well.  You  shall  tell  me  after  break- 
fast precisely  what  I  can  do,  and  then  Fll  do 
it.  Women  are  naturally  bad,  and  so  they 
mustn't  lose  any  opportunity  of  doing  good 
when  they  can.'' 

At  that  moment  they  arrived  at  the  house 
gates.  Slipping  from  her  saddle,  Dorothy 
turned  her  great,  earnest  eyes  full  upon  her 
companion,  and  said  with  tense  lips : 

"  Promise  me  one  thing.  Cousin  Arthur ! 
Promise  me  that  if  I  die  in  this  work  you  won't 
ask  any  clergyman  to  mutter  worn-out  words 
from  a  prayer  book  over  my  grave,  but  will 
yourself  say  to  my  friends  that  I  did  not  shirk 
like  a  coward !  " 

Instantly,  and  without  waiting  for  the  prom- 
ise she  had  besought,  the  girl  turned,  caught  up 
her  long  riding  skirt  and  fled  like  a  deer  to 
the  house. 


149 


XI 

THE  WOMAN»S  AWAKENING 

/r  was  upon  a  momentary  impulse  that 
Arthur  Brent  had  suggested  to  Doro- 
thy that  she  should  help  him  in  the  bat- 
tle with  pestilence  which  lay  before  him.  As  a 
physician  he  had  been  accustomed  to  practise 
his  profession  not  in  the  ordinary,  perfunctory 
way,  and  not  for  gain,  but  in  the  spirit  of  a 
crusader  combating  disease  as  the  arch  enemy 
of  humanity,  and  partly  too  for  the  joy  of  con- 
quering so  merciless  a  foe.  His  first  thought 
in  this  case  therefore  had  been  to  call  to  his  aid 
the  best  assistance  available.  His  chief  diffi- 
culty, he  clearly  foresaw,  would  be  in  getting 
his  measures  intelligently  carried  out.  He 
must  secure  the  accurate,  prompt  and  intelli- 
gent execution  of  his  directions,  whether  for 
the  administration  of  medicines  prescribed  or 
for  hygienic  measures  ordered.  The  igno- 
rance, the  prejudice,  and  the  inert  carelessness 
of  the  negroes,  he  felt,  would  be  his  mightiest 
and  wiliest  foes  in  this,  and  there  could  be  no 

150 


THE  WOMAN'S  AWAKENING 

abler  adjutant  for  this  purpose  than  Dorothy, 
with  her  quick  wit,  her  scrupulous  conscien- 
tiousness and  her  habit  of  compelling  exact 
and  instant  obedience  to  all  her  commands.  So 
he  had  thought  first  of  calling  upon  Dorothy 
for  help.  But  when  she  had  so  promptly  re- 
sponded, he  began  to  feel  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake.  The  physician  in  him,  and  the  cru- 
sader too,  sanctioned  and  approved  the  use  of 
the  best  means  available  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  his  high  purpose.  But  the  man  in 
him,  the  friend,  the  affectionate  protector,  pro- 
tested against  such  an  exposure  of  the  child  to 
dreadful  danger. 

When  he  reflected  upon  the  matter  and 
thought  of  the  peril;  when  he  conjured  up  a 
picture  of  dear  little  Dorothy  stricken  and  per- 
haps dead  in  a  service  of  humanity  to  which 
no  duty  called  her,  and  to  which  she  had  been 
induced  only  by  her  loyalty  to  him,  he  shrank 
back  in  horror  from  the  program  he  had  laid 
out. 

Yet  he  knew  that  he  could  not  easily  undo 
what  he  had  done.  There  was  a  child  side  to 
Dorothy,  and  it  was  that  which  usually  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  mind  when  he  thought  of 
her.  But  there  was  a  strong  woman  side  to 
her  also,  as  he  very  well  knew,  and  over  that 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

he  had  established  no  influence  or  control.  He 
had  won  the  love  of  the  child.  He  had  not 
yet  won  the  love  of  the  woman.  He  realized 
that  it  was  the  masterful,  woman  side  of  her 
nature  that  he  had  called  into  activity  in  this 
matter.  Now  that  the  heroism  of  the  brave 
woman's  soul  was  enlisted,  he  knew  that  he 
could  not  easily  bid  it  turn  back. 

Yet  something  might  be  done  by  adroit 
management,  and  he  resolved  upon  that.  After 
breakfast  he  sent  for  Dorothy  and  said,  lightly : 

"  I'm  glad  I  have  taught  you  to  handle  drugs 
skilfully,  Dorothy.  I  shall  need  certain  medi- 
cines frequently  in  this  conflict.  They  are  our 
ammunition  for  the  battle,  and  we  must  have 
them  always  ready.  I'm  going  to  write  some 
prescriptions  for  you  to  fill.  I  want  you  to 
spend  today  and  tomorrow  in  the  laboratory 
preparing  them.  One  of  them  will  tax  your 
skill  a  good  deal.  It  may  take  you  several 
days  to  get  it  ready.  It  involves  some  very 
careful  chemical  processes — for  you  must  first 
manufacture  a  part  of  your  chemicals  out  of 
their  raw  materials.  I'll  write  detailed  in- 
structions for  that,  but  you  may  fail  half  a 
dozen  times  before  you  succeed.  You  must 
be  patient  and  you'll  get  it  right.  You  always 
do  in  the  end.     Then  there's  another  thing  I 

152 


THE  WOMAN'S  AWAKENING 

want  you  to  do  for  me.  rm  going  to  burn  all 
the  clothing,  bedding  and  so  forth  at  the  quar- 
ters. I'll  make  each  of  the  well  negroes  put 
on  the  freshest  clothing  he  has  before  remov- 
ing to  the  sanitary  camp,  and  I'll  burn  all  the 
rest.  I  sent  Dick  early  this  morning  to  the 
Court  House,  telling  Moses  to  send  me  all  the 
blankets  and  all  the  cloth  he  has  of  every  kind, 
from  calico  and  osnaburgs  to  heavy  woollen 
goods,  and  I've  written  to  Richmond  for  more. 
We  must  clothe  the  negroes  anew — men,  wo- 
men and  children.  So  I  want  you  to  get  to- 
gether all  your  seamstresses — every  woman  on 
the  plantation  indeed  who  can  sew  even  a  little 
bit — and  set  them  all  at  work  making  clothes. 
I've  cleared  out  the  prize  bam  for  the  purpose, 
and  the  men  are  now  laying  a  rough  floor  in  it 
and  putting  up  some  tables  on  which  you  and 
Aunt  Polly  can  '  cut  out ' — that's  what  you  call 
it,  isn't  it?" 

"  Cousin  Arthur,"  said  the  girl,  looking  at 
him  with  something  of  reproach  in  her  great, 
dark  blue  eyes,  "  I'll  do  all  this  of  course,  and 
everything  else  that  you  want  done.  But 
please.  Cousin  Arthur,  don't  tell  lies  to  me, 
even  indirectly.  I  couldn't  stand  that  from 
you." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  child  ?  " 

153 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  Oh,  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  keep 
me  busy  with  all  these  things  so  that  I  shall  not 
go  into  your  hospital  to  serve  as  a  nurse.  I'll 
do  these  things  for  you,  but  I'll  do  the  nursing 
too.  So  please  let  us  be  good  friends  and 
please  don't  try  to  play  tricks." 

The  young  man  was  astonished  and  abashed. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  might  truth- 
fully have  pleaded  that  the  work  he  was  thus 
laying  out  for  her  was  really  and  pressingly 
necessary.  But  Dorothy  anticipated  him  in 
that. 

"  Don't  tell  me  that  these  things  are  neces- 
sary. Cousin  Arthur.  I  know  that  perfectly 
well.  But  you  know  that  I  am  not  necessary 
to  them — except  so  far  as  the  prescriptions  are 
concerned.  Aunt  Polly  can  direct  the  clothes 
making  better  than  I  can,  and  her  maid,  Jane,  is 
almost  as  good.  So  after  I  compound  the  pre- 
scriptions I  shall  go  to  my  duty  at  the  hospital. 
I  don't  think  I  like  you  very  well  today, 
Cousin  Arthur,  and  I'll  not  like  you  at  all  if 
you  go  on  trying  to  make  up  things  to  keep  me 
busy,  away  from  the  sick  people.  If  you  do 
that  again  I'll  stop  calling  you  *  Cousin  Arthur  ' 
and  you'll  be  just  *  Dr.  Brent '  to  me." 

"Please  don't  do  that,  Dorothy,"  he  said 
very  pleadingly.     "  I  only  meant — " 


THE  WOMAN'S  AWAKENING 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  meant,"  she  inter- 
rupted. ''  But  you  shouldn't  treat  me  in  that 
way.  I  won't  call  you  '  Dr.  Brent,'  unless  you 
do  that  sort  of  thing  again,  and  if  you  let  me  do 
my  duty  without  trying  to  play  tricks,  I'll  go 
on  liking  you  just  as  much  as  ever." 

''  Thank  you,  Dorothy,"  he  replied  with  fer- 
vor. *'  You  must  forgive  me,  please.  I  didn't 
want  to  expose  you  to  this  danger — that  was 
all." 

*'  Oh,  I  understand  all  that,"  she  quickly  re- 
sponded. ''  But  it  wasn't  treating  me  quite 
fairly — ^and  you  know  I  hate  unfairness.  And 
— why  shouldn't  I  be  exposed  to  the  danger  if 
I  can  do  any  good  ?  Even  if  the  worst  should 
happen — even  if  I  should  take  the  fever  and  die, 
after  saving  some  of  these  poor  creatures'  lives, 
could  you  or  anybody  have  made  a  better  use  of 
a  girl  like  me  than  that  ?  " 

Arthur  looked  at  the  child  earnestly,  but  the 
child  was  no  longer  there.  The  eyes  that  gazed 
into  his  were  those  of  a  woman  I 


^55 


XII 

MAMMY 

TT'T^B.'EU    Arthur   Brent    reached   the 
l/g/  "  quarters "     that     morning    he 

^  ^  found  matters  in  worse  condition 

than  he  had  feared. 

"  The  whole  spot  is  pestilential/'  he  said. 
"  How  any  sane  man  ever  selected  it  for  quar- 
ters, I  can't  imagine.  Gilbert,"  calling  to  the 
head  man  who  had  come  in  from  the  field  at 
his  master's  summons,  "  I  want  you  to  take  all 
the  people  out  of  the  crop  at  once,  and  send  for 
all  the  house  servants  too.  Take  them  with 
you  over  to  the  Haw  Branch  hill  and  put  every 
one  of  them  at  work  building  some  sort  of  huts. 
You  must  get  enough  of  them  done  before 
night,  to  hold  the  sick  people,  for  I'm  going 
to  clear  out  these  quarters  today.  I  must  have 
enough  huts  for  the  sick  ones  at  once.  Those 
who  are  well  will  have  to  sleep  out  of  doors 
at  the  Silver  Spring  tonight." 

"  But,  Mahstah,"  remonstrated  Gilbert,  "  dey 

156 


MAMMY 

ain't  no  clapboards  to  roof  wif.  Dey  ain't  no 
nuffin— " 

"  Use  fence  rails  then  and  cover  them  with 
pine  tops.  I'll  ride  over  and  direct  you  pres- 
ently. Send  me  eight  or  ten  of  the  strongest 
young  women  at  once,  and  then  get  everybody 
to  work  on  the  shelters.    Do  you  hear  ?  " 

When  the  women  came  he  instructed  them 
how  to  carry  the  sick  on  improvised  litters,  and 
half  an  hour  later,  with  his  own  hand  he  set 
fire  to  the  little  negro  village.  He  had  allowed 
nothing  to  be  carried  away  from  it,  and  he 
left  nothing  to  chance.  One  of  the  negroes 
came  back  in  frantic  haste  to  save  certain  "  best 
clothes  "  and  a  banjo  that  he  had  laboriously 
made.  Arthur  ordered  him  instead  to  fill  up 
the  well  with  rubbish,  so  that  no  one  might 
drink  of  its  waters  again. 

As  soon  as  the  fire  was  completely  in  posses- 
sion the  young  master  rode  away  to  Haw 
Branch  hill  to  look  after  the  sick  ones  and  direct 
the  work  of  building  shelters  for  them.  Doro- 
thy was  already  there,  tenderly  looking  to  the 
comfort  of  the  invalids.  The  litter-bearers 
would  have  set  their  burdens  down  anywhere 
and  left  them  there  but  for  Dorothy's  quiet  in- 
sistence that  they  should  place  them  in  such 
shade  as  she  could  find,  and  gather  an  abun- 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

dance  of  broomstraw  grass  for  them  to  lie  upon. 
To  Arthur  she  offered  no  explanation  of  her 
presence,  nor  was  any  needed.  Arthur  under- 
stood, and  all  that  he  said  was : 

"  God  bless  you,  Dorothy !  "  a  sentiment  to 
which  one  of  the  stricken  ones  responded : 

"He'll  do  dat  for  shuah,  Mahstah,  ef  he 
knows  he  business." 

"  Dick  has  returned  from  the  Court  House," 
said  Dorothy  reporting.  "  He  says  the  big 
tent  is  there  and  I've  sent  a  man  with  a  wagon 
to  fetch  it.  These  shelters  will  do  well  enough 
for  tonight,  and  we'll  get  our  hospital  tent  up 
soon  tomorrow  morning." 

"  Very  well,"  responded  Arthur.  **  Now, 
Dorothy,  won't  you  ride  over  to  Silver  Spring 
and  direct  the  men  there  how  to  lay  out  the 
new  quarters?  I  drew  this  little  diagram  as  I 
rode  over  here.  You  see  I  want  the  houses 
built  well  apart  for  the  sake  of  plenty  of  air. 
I'm  going  to  put  the  quarters  there  *  for  all  the 
time  '  as  you  express  it.  That  is  to  say  I'm 
going  to  build  permanent  quarters.  I've  al- 
ready looked  over  the  ground  carefully  as  to 
drainage  and  the  like  and  roughly  laid  out  the 
plan  of  the  village  so  that  it  shall  be  healthy. 
Please  go  over  there  and  show  the  men  what 


MAMMY 

I  want,  I'll  be  over  there  in  an  hour  and  then 
you  can  come  back  here.  I  must  remain  here 
till  the  doctors  come." 

"What  doctors,  Cousin  Arthur?" 

"  All  the  doctors  within  a  dozen  miles.  IVe 
sent  for  all  of  them." 

"  But  what  for  ?  Surely  you  know  more 
about  fighting  disease  than  our  old-fashioned 
country  doctors  do." 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  there  are  several  reasons 
for  consulting  them.  First  of  all  they  know 
this  country  and  climate  better  than  I  do. 
Secondly,  they  are  older  men,  most  of  them, 
and  have  had  experience.  Thirdly,  I  don't 
want  all  the  responsibility  on  my  shoulders,  in 
case  anything  goes  wrong,  and  above  all  I  don't 
want  to  offend  public  sentiment  by  assuming 
too  much.  These  gentlemen  have  all  been  very 
courteous  to  me,  and  it  is  only  proper  for  me 
to  send  for  them  in  consultation.  I  shall  get 
all  the  good  I  can  out  of  their  advice,  but  of 
course  I  shall  myself  remain  physician  in  charge 
of  all  my  cases." 

The  explanation  was  simple  enough,  and 
Dorothy  accepted  it.  "  But  I  don't  like  any- 
body to  think  that  country  doctors  can  teach 
you  anything.  Cousin  Arthur,"  she  said  as  she 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

mounted.  "  And  remember  you  are  to  come 
over  to  Silver  Spring  as  soon  as  you  can.  I 
must  be  back  here  in  an  hour  or  so  at  most." 

Just  as  she  was  about  to  ride  away  Dorothy 
was  confronted  with  an  old  negro  woman — 
obviously  very  old  indeed,  but  still  in  robust 
health,  and  manifestly  still  very  strong,  if  one 
might  estimate  her  strength  from  the  huge 
burden  she  carried  on  her  well  poised  head. 

"  Why,  Mammy,  what  are  you  doing  here?  " 
asked  the  girl  in  surprise.  "  You  don't  belong 
here,  and  you  must  go  back  to  Pocahontas  at 
once." 

"What's  you  a  talkin'  'bout,  chile?"  an- 
swered the  old  woman.  "  Mammy  don't  b'long 
heah,  don't  she?  Mammy  b'longs  jes  whah 
somever  her  precious  chile  needs  her.  So  when 
de  tidins  done  comes  dat  Mammy's  little  Doro- 
thy's gwine  to  'spose  herself  in  de  fever  camp 
jes  to  take  kyar  of  a  lot  o'  no  'count  niggas 
what's  done  gone  an'  got  dey  selves  sick,  why 
cou'se  dey  ain't  nuffin  fer  Mammy  to  do  but 
pack  up  some  necessary  ingridiments  an  come 
over  and  take  kyar  o'  her  baby.  So  jes  you  shet 
up  yer  sweet  mouf,  you  precious  chile,  an'  leave 
ole  Mammy  alone.  I  ain't  a  gwine  to  take  no 
nonsense  from  a  chile  what's  my  own  to  kyar 
fer." 

1 60 


MAMMY 

"  You  dear  old  Mammy !  "  exclaimed  the  gifl 
with  tears  in  her  voice.  "  But  I  really  don't 
need  you,  and  I  will  not  have  you  exposed  to 
the  fever." 

"  What's  Mammy  kyar  f er  de  fever  ?  Fever 
won't  nebber  dar  tetch  Mammy.  Mammy  ain't 
nebber  tuk  no  fevers  an'  no  nuffin  else.  Light- 
nin'  cawn't  hu't  Mammy  anymore'n  it  kin  split 
a  black  gum  tree.  G'long  'bout  yer  business, 
chile,  an  don't  you  go  fer  to  give  no  impidence 
to  yer  ole  Mammy.  She's  come  to  take  kyar 
o'  her  chile  an'  she's  a  gwine  to  do  it.  Do  you 
heah?" 

Further  argument  and  remonstrance  served 
only  to  make  plain  the  utter  futility  of  any  and 
every  endeavor  to  control  the  privileged  and 
devotedly  loving  old  nurse.  She  had  come  to 
the  camp  to  stay,  and  she  was  going,  to  stay  in 
spite  of  all  protest  and  all  authority. 

"  There's  nothing  for  it,  Cousin  Arthur," 
said  Dorothy,  with  the  tears  slipping  out  from 
between  her  eyelids,  "  but  to  let  dear  old  Mam- 
my have  her  way.  You  see  she's  had  charge  of 
me  ever  since  I  was  born,  and  I  suppose  I 
belong  to  her.  It  was  she  who  taught  me  how 
badly  women  need  somebody  to  control  them 
and  how  bad  they  are  if  they  haven*t  a  master. 
She'll  stay  here  as  long  as  I  do,  you  may  be 

i6i 


IDOROTHT  SOUTH 

sure  of  that,  and  she'll  love  me  and  scold  me, 
.and  keep  me  in  order  generally,  till  this  thing  is 
over,  no  matter  what  you  or  anybody  else  may 
say  to  the  contrary.  So  please,  Cousin  Arthur, 
make  some  of  the  men  build  a  particularly 
comfortable  shelter  for  her  and  me.  She 
wouldn't  care  for  herself,  even  if  she  slept  on 
the  ground  out  of  doors,  but  she'll  be  a  turbu- 
lent disturber  of  the  camp  if  you  don't  treat 
me  like  a  princess — ^though  personally  I  only 
want  to  serve  and  could  make  myself  comfort- 
.able  anywhere." 

"I'll  see  that  you  have  good  quarters, 
Dorothy,''  answered  the  young  man  in  a  de- 
termined tone.  "  I'd  do  that  anyhow.  But 
what's  all  that  you've  got  there  in  your  big 
bundle.  Mammy?" 

"Oh,  nuffin  but  a  few  dispensable  ingridi- 
ments,  Mas'  Arthur.  Jes'  a  few  blankets  an' 
quilts  an'  pillars  an'  four  cha'rs  an'  a  feather 
'bed  an'  a  coffee  pot  an'  some  andirons  an'  some 
light  wood,  an'  a  lookin'  glass,  and  a  wash 
bowl  and  pitcher  an'  jes  a  few  other  little  in- 
conveniences fer  my  precious  chile." 

For  answer  Arthur  turned  to  Randall,  the 
ihead  carpenter  of  the  plantation,  and  said : 

"Randall,  there's  a  lot  of  dressed  lumber 

162 


MAMMY 

under  the  shed  of  the  wheat  barn.  I'll  have  it 
brought  over  here  at  once.  I  want  you  to  take 
all  the  men  you  need — your  Mas'  Archer  Ban- 
nister is  sending  over  four  carpenters  to  help 
and  your  Mas'  John  Meaux  is  sending  three — 
and  if  you  don't  get  a  comfortable  little  house 
for  your  Miss  Dorothy  built  before  the  moom 
rises,  I  shall  want  to  know  why.  Get  to  work, 
at  once.  Put  the  house  on  this  mound.  Build 
a  stick  and  mud  chimney  to  it,  so  that  there  can 
be  a  fire  tonight.  Three  rooms  with  a  kitchen 
at  the  back  will  be  enough,  but  mind  you  are 
to  have  it  ready  before  the  moon  rises,  do  youi 
hear?" 

"  It'll  be  ready  Mahstah,  er  Randall  won't 
let  nobody  call  him  a  carpenter  agin  fer  a. 
mighty  long  time.  Ef  Miss  Dorothy  is  a  gwine 
to  nuss  de  folks  while  dey's  sick  you  kin  jes 
bet  yer  sweet  life  de  folks  what's  well  an' 
strong  is  a  gwine  to  make  her  comfortable." 

"  Amen ! "  shouted  three  or  four  of  the 
others  in  enthusiastic  unison.  Dorothy  was  not 
there  to  hear.  She  had  already  ridden  away 
on  her  mission  to  direct  matters  at  the  Silver 
Spring. 

"  It's  queer,"  thought  the  young  master  of 
the  plantation,  "how  devotedly  loyal  all  the 

163 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

negroes  are  to  Dorothy.  Nobody — ^not  even 
Williams  the  overseer, — was  ever  so  exacting 
as  she  is  in  requiring  the  most  rigid  perform- 
ance of  duty.  Ever  since  she  punished  Ben 
for  bringing  her  an  imperfectly  groomed  horse, 
that  chronically  lazy  fellow  has  taken  the 
trouble  every  night  to  put  her  mare's  mane  and 
tail  into  some  sort  of  equine  crimping  appa- 
ratus, so  that  they  may  flow  gracefully  in  the 
morning.  And  he  does  it  for  affection,  too, 
for  when  she  told  him,  one  night,  that  he  needn't 
do  it,  as  we  were  late  in  returning  from  Poca- 
hontas, I  remember  the  fervor  with  which  he 
responded :  *  Oh,  yes.  Miss  Dorothy,  I'll  do 
de  mar'  up  in  watered  silk  style  tonight  cause 
yar's  a  gwine  to  Branton  fer  a  dinin'  day  to- 
morrer,  an'  Ben  ain't  a  gwine  fer  to  let  his 
little  Missus  ride  in  anything  but  de  bes'  o' 
•style.'  The  fact  is,"  continued  Arthur,  reflect- 
ing, "  these  people  understand  Dorothy.  They 
"know  that  she  is  always  kindly,  always  com- 
passionate, always  sympathetic  in  her  dealings 
with  them.  But  they  realize  that  she  is  also 
always  just.  She  never  grows  angry.  She 
never  scolds.  She  punishes  a  fault  severely  in 
lier  queer  way,  but  after  it  is  punished  she  never 
refers  to  it  again.  She  never  'throws  up 
things,'  to  them.    In  a  word,  Dorothy  is  just, 

164 


MAMMY 

and  after  all  it  is  justice  that  human  beings 
most  want,  and  it  is  the  one  thing  of  which 
they  get  least  in  this  world.  What  a  girl  Doro- 
thy is,  anyhow  1 " 


165 


XIII 

THE  <^^  SONG  BALLADS  "  OF  DICK 

/T  was 
his  own  phrase  by  which  he  meant 
during  the  fever — ^that  Dick's  genius 
revealed  itself.  Dick  had  long  ago  achieved  the 
coveted  dignity  of  being  his  master's  "  pussonal 
servant."  It  was  Dorothy  who  appointed  him 
to  that  position  and  it  was  mainly  Dorothy  who 
directed  his  service  and  saw  to  it  that  he  did 
not  neglect  it 

For  many  of  the  services  of  a  valet,  Arthur 
had  no  use  whatever.  It  was  his  habit,  as  he 
had  long  ago  said,  to  "  tie  his  own  shoe 
strings."  He  refused  from  the  first  very  many 
of  Dick's  proffered  attentions.  But  he  liked 
to  have  his  boots  thoroughly  polished  and  his 
clothing  well  brushed.  These  things  he  al- 
lowed Dick  to  attend  to.  For  the  rest  he  made 
small  use  of  him  except  to  send  him  on  errands. 

The  position  suited  Dick's  temperament  and 
ambition  thoroughly  and  he  had  no  mind  to  let 
the  outbreak  of  fever  on  the  plantation  rob  him 

1 66 


*r£ONG  BALLADS''  OF  DICK 

of  it.  When  Arthur  established  himself  at  the* 
quarantine  camp,  taking  for  his  own  a  particu- 
larly small  brush  shelter,  he  presently  found 
Dick  in  attendance,  and  seriously  endeavoring, 
to  make  himself  useful.  For  the  first  time. 
Arthur  felt  that  the  boy's  services  were  really 
of  value  to  him.  He  was  intelligent,  quick- 
witted,, and  unusually  accurate  in  the  execution* 
of  orders.  He  could  deliver  a  message  pre- 
cisely as  it  was  given  to  him,  and  his  "  creative- 
imagination  "  was  kept  well  in  hand  when  re^ 
porting  to  his  master  and  when  delivering  his 
messages  to  others — ^particularly  to  those  in  at- 
tendance upon  the  sick.  Arthur  was  busy  night 
and  day.  He  saw  every  patient  frequently,  and 
often  he  felt  it  necessary  to  remain  all  night  by 
a  bedside.  In  the  early  morning,  before  it  was 
time  for  the  field  hands  to  go  to  their  work  in 
the  crops,  he  inspected  them  at  their  new  quar- 
ters, and  each  day,  too,  he  rode  over  all  the 
fields  in  which  crop  work  was  going  on. 

In  all  his  goings  Dick  was  beside  him,  except 
when  sent  elsewhere  with  messages.  In  the 
camp  he  kept  his  master  supplied  with  fuel  and 
cooked  his  simple  meals  for  him,  at  whatever 
hours  of  the  night  or  day  the  master  found  time 
to  give  attention  to  his  personal  wants. 

In  the  meanwhile — after  the  worst  of  the 

167 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

epidemic  was  over — Dick  made  himself  useful 
as  an  entertainer  of  the  camp.  Dick  had  de- 
veloped capacities  as  a  poet,  and  after  the  man- 
ner of  Homer  and  other  great  masters  of  the 
poetic  art,  it  was  his  custom  to  chant  his  verses 
to  rudely  fashioned  melodies  of  his  own  manu- 
facture. Unfortunately  Dorothy,  who  took 
down  Dick's  "  Song  Ballads,"  as  he  called  them, 
and  preserved  their  text  in  enduring  form,  was 
wholly  ignorant  of  music,  as  we  know,  and  so 
the  melodies  of  Dick  are  lost  to  us,  as  the  melo- 
dies of  Homer  are.  But  in  the  one  case  as  in 
the  other,  some  at  least  of  the  poems  remain 
to  us. 

Like  all  great  poets,  Dick  was  accustomed  to 
find  his  inspiration  in  the  life  about  him.  Thus 
the  fever  outbreak  itself  seems  to  have  sug- 
gested the  following : 

Nigga  got  de  fevah, 

Nigga  he  most  daid; 
Long  come  de  Mahstah, 

Mahstah  shake  he  haid. 

Mahstah  he  look  sorry, 

Nigga  fit  to  cry; 
Mahstah  he  say  "  Nebber  minV 

Git  well  by  am  by.'* 

Mahstah  po*  de  medicine, 

Mix  it  in  de  cup, 
Nigga  mos'  a  chokin* 

As  he  drinks  it  up. 

i68 


"  SONG  BALLADS  "  OF  DICK 

Nigga  he  git  well  agin 

Den  he  steal  de  chicken, 
Den  de  Mahstah  kotches  him 

An'  den  he  gits  a  lickin'. 

The  simplicity  and  directness  of  statement 
here  employed  fulfil  the  first  of  the  three  re- 
quirements which  John  Milton  declared  to  be 
essential  to  poetry  of  a  high  order,  which,  he 
tells  us  must  be  "  simple,  sensuous,  passionate." 
The  necessary  sensuousness  is  present  also,  in 
the  reference  made  to  the  repulsiveness  of  the 
medicine.  But  that  quality  is  better  illustrated 
in  another  of  Dick's  Song  Ballads  which  runs 
as  follows : 

Possum  up  a  'simmon  tree — 

Possum  dunno  nuffin, 
He  nebber  know  how  sweet  and  good 

A  possum  is  wid  stufl&n. 

Possum  up  a  *simmon  tree — 

A  eatin*  of  de  blossom. 
Up  creeps  de  nigga  an' 

It's  **  good-by  Mistah  Possum." 

Nigga  at  de  table 

A  cuttin*  off  a  slice, 
An*  sayin'  to  de  chillun — 

"  Possum's  mighty  nice." 

Here  the  reader  will  observe  the  instinctive 
dramatic  skill  with  which  the  poet,  having 

169 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

reached  the  climax  of  the  situation,  Abruptly 
rings  down  the  curtain,  as  it  were:  There  is  no 
waste  of  words  in  unnecessary"  explanations,  no 
delaying  of  the  action  with  needless  comment. 
And  at  the  end  of  the  second  stanza  we  encoufi- 
ter  a  masterly  touch.  Instead  of  telling  us  with 
prosaic  literalness  that  the  nigga  succeeded  in 
slaying  his  game,  the  poet  suggests  thi^  entire 
action  with  the  figurative  phrase — "  It's  *  good- 
by,  Mistah  Possum/  " 

There  is  a  fine  poetic  reserve  too  in  the 
abrupt  shifting  of  the  scene  from  tree  to  table, 
and  the  presentation  of  the  denouement  without 
other  preparation  than  such  as  the  reader's 
imagination  may  easily  furnish  for  itself.  We 
are  not  told  that  the  possum  was  dressed  and 
cooked ;  even  the  presence  of  stuffing  as  an  ad- 
junct to  the  savor  of  the  dish  is  left  to  be  in- 
ferred from  the  purely  casual  suggestion  made 
in  the  first  stanza  of  the  fact  that  stuffing  tends 
to  enrich  as  well  as  to  adorn  the  viand. 

These  qualities  and  some  others  of  a  notable 
kind  appear  in  the  next  example  we  are  per- 
mitted to  give  of  this  poet's  work. 

Ole  crow  flyin'  roun'  de  fiel*, 

A  lookin'  fer  de  cawn; 
Mahstah  wid  he  shot  gun 

A  settin'  in  de  bawn. 

170 


'  SONG  BALLADS  "  OF  DICK 

Ole  crow  see  a  skeer  crow 

A  standin'  in  the  cawn; 
Nebber  see  de  Mahstah 

A  settin'  in  de  bawn. 

Ole  crow  say:— "De  skeer  crow> 

He  ain't  got  no  gun,— 
Jes'  a  lot  o'  ole  clo'es 

A  standin'  in  de  sun; 

Ole  crow  needn't  min'  him, 

Ole  crow  git  some  cawn ;  " 
But  he  nebber  see  de  Mahstah 

A  settin'  in  de  bawn. 

Ole  crow  wuk  like  nigga 

A  pullin'  up  de  cawn— 
Mahstah  pull  de  trigga, 

Ober  in  de  bawn. 

Ole  crow  flop  an'  flutters- 
He's  done  got  it,  sho'! 

Skeer  crow  shakin'  in  he  sleeve 
A  laughin*  at  de  crow. 

There  is  a  compactness  of  statement  here — 
a  resolute  elimination  of  the  superfluous  which 
might  well  commend  the  piece  to  those  modern 
theatrical  managers  who  seem  to  regard  dia- 
logue as  an  impertinence  in  a  play. 

Sometimes  the  poet  went  even  further  and 
presented  only  the  barest  suggestion  of  the 
thought  in  his  mind,  leaving  the  reader  to  sup- 
ply the  rest.  Such  is  the  case  in  the  poem  next 
to  be  set  down  as  an  example,  illustrative  of  the 

171 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

poet's  method.     It  consists  of  but  a  singk 
stanza : 

De  day's  done  gone,  de  wuk's  done  done. 

An'  Mahstah  he  smoke  he  pipe; 
But  nigga  he  ain't  done  jes  yit, 

Cause — de  watermillion's  ripe. 

Here  we  have  in  four  brief  lines  an  entirely 
adequate  suggestion  of  the  predatory  habits  of 
"  Nigga,"  and  of  his  attitude  of  mind  toward 
"  watermillions."  With  the  bare  statement  of 
the  fact  that  the  fruit  in  question  has  attained 
its  succulent  maturity,  we  are  left  to  discover 
for  ourselves  the  causal  relation  between  that 
fact  and  the  intimated  purpose  of  "  Nigga  "  to 
continue  his  activities  during  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness. The  exceeding  subtlety  of  all  this  cannot 
fail  to  awaken  the  reader's  admiring  sympathy. 

Perhaps  the  most  elaborately  wrought  out  of 
these  song  ballads  is  the  one  which  has  been 
reserved  for  the  last.     Its  text  here  follows : 

Possum's  good  an'  hoe  cake's  fine. 

An'  so  is  mammy's  pies, 
But  bes'  of  all  good  t'ings  to  eat 

Is  chickens,  fryin'  size. 

How  I  lubs  a  moonlight  night 

When  stars  is  in  de  skies! 
But  sich  nights  ain't  no  good  to  git 

De  chickens,  fryin'  size. 

172 


«« SONG  BALLADS  "  OF  DICK 

De  moonlight  night  is  shiny  bright, 

Jes'  like  a  nigga's  eyes. 
But  dark  nights  is  the  bes'  to  git 

De  chickens,  fryin'  size. 

When  Mahstah  he  is  gone  to  sleep, 

An'  black  clouds  hides  de  skies. 
Oh,  den's  de  time  to  crawl  an*  cre^ 

Fer  chickens,  fryin'  size. 

Fer   den  prehaps  you   won't  git  kotched 

Nor  hab  to  tell  no  lies. 
An'  mebbe  you'll  git  safe  away 

Wid  chickens,  fryin'  size. 

But  you  mus'  look  out  sharp  fer  noise 

An'  hush  de  chicken's  cries, 
Fer  mighty  wakin'  is  de  squawks 

Of  chickens,  fryin*  size. 

To  gross  minds  this  abrupt,  admonitory  end- 
ing of  the  poem  will  be  disappointing.  It  leaves 
the  reader  wishing  for  more — more  chicken,  if 
not  more  poetry.  And  yet  in  this  self- 
restrained  ending  of  the  piece  the  poet  is  fully 
justified  by  the  practice  of  other  great  masters 
of  the  poetic  art.  Who  that  has  read  Cole- 
ridge's superb  fragment  "  Kubla  Khan,"  does 
not  long  to  know  more  of  the  "  stately  pleasure 
dome  "  and  of  those  "  caverns  measureless  to 
man  "  through  which  "  Alph  the  sacred  river 
ran,  down  to  a  sunless  sea"  ? 

We  present  these  illustrative  examples  of 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

Dick's  verse  in  full  confidence  that  both  his  in- 
spiration and  his  methods  will  make  their  own 
appeal  to  discriminating  minds.  If  there  be  ob- 
jection made  to  the  somewhat  irregular  word 
forms  employed  by  this  poet,  the  ready  answer 
is  that  the  same  characteristic  marks  many  of 
the  writings  of  Robert  Burns,  and  that  Homer 
himself  employed  a  dialect.  If  it  is  suggested 
that  Dick's  verbs  are  sometimes  out  of  agree- 
ment with  their  nominatives,  it  is  easy  to  im- 
agine Dick  contemptuously  replying,  "  Who 
keers  'bout  dat?" 


174 


XIV 

DOROTHY'S  APFAIRS 

^  GOOD  many  things  happened  "  en- 

/J  durin*  of  the  feveh  " — if  Dick's  ex- 
•^ -M^  pressive  and  by  no  means  inapt 
phrase  may  again  be  employed. 

First  of  all  the  out6reak  gave  Madison  Pey- 
ton what  he  deemed  his  opportunity.  It  seemed 
to  him  to  furnish  occasion  for  that  reconcilia- 
tion with  Aunt  Polly  which  he  saw  to  be  neces- 
sary to  his  plans,  and,  still  more  important,  it 
seemed  to  afford  an  opportunity  for  him  to 
withdraw  Dorothy  from  the  influence  of  Dr. 
Arthur  Brent. 

Accordingly,  as  soon  as  news  came  to  him  of 
the  epidemic,  and  of  Arthur  Brent's  heroic 
measures  in  meeting  it,  he  hurried  over  to  Wya- 
noke,  full  of  confident  plans. 

"  This  is  dreadful  news.  Cousin  Polly,"  he 
said,  as  soon  as  he  had  bustled  into  the  house. 

"  What  news,  Madison  ?  "  answered  the  old 
lady.    "  What  have  you  come  to  tell  me?  " 

175 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  Oh  I  mean  this  dreadful  fever  outbreak- 
it  is  terrible—" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Aunt  Polly,  re- 
flectively. "  We  have  had  only  ten  or  a  dozen 
cases  so  far,  and  you  had  three  or  four  times 
that  many  at  your  quarters  last  year." 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  of  course  this  is  very  much 
worse.  You  see  Arthur  has  had  to  burn  down 
all  the  quarters,  and  destroy  all  the  clothing. 
He's  a  scien-ific  ihysician,  you  know,  and — " 

"  But  all  science  is  atheistic,  Madison.  You 
told  me  so  yourself  over  at  Osmore,  and  so  of 
course  you  don't  pay  any  attention  to  Arthur's 
scientific  freaks." 

"  Now  you  know  I  didn't  mean  that,  Cousin 
Polly,"  answered  Peyton,  apologetically.  "  Of 
course  Arthur  knows  all  about  fevers.  You 
know  how  he  distinguished  himself  at  Nor- 
folk." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  what  has  that  to  do  with 
this  case?  " 

"  Why,  if  this  fever  is  so  bad  that  a  scientific 
physician  like  Arthur  finds  it  necessary  to  burn 
all  his  negro  quarters  and  build  new  ones,  it 
must  be  very  much  worse  than  anything  ever 
known  in  this  county  before.  Nobody  here 
ever  thought  of  such  extreme  measures." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  answered  Aunt  Polly. 

176 


DOROTHrS  AFFAIRS 

"At  any  rate  you  didn't  do  anything  o£  the 
kind  when  an  epidemic  broke  out  in  your  quar- 
ters last  year.  But  you  had  fourteen  deaths 
and  thus  far  we  have  had  only  one,  and  Arthur 
tells  me  he  hopes  to  have  no  more.  Perhaps  if 
you  had  been  a  scientific  physician,  you  too 
would  have  burned  your  quarters  and  moved 
your  hands  to  healthier  ones." 

This  was  a  home  shot,  as  Aunt  Polly  very 
well  knew.  For  the  physicians  who  had  at- 
tended Peyton's  people,  had  earnestly  recom- 
mended the  destruction  of  his  negro  quarters 
and  the  removal  of  his  people  to  a  more  health- 
ful locality,  and  he  had  stoutly  refused  to  incur 
the  expense.  He  had  ever  since  excused  him- 
self by  jeering  at  the  doctors  and  pointing,  in 
justification  of  his  neglect  of  their  advice  to  the 
fact  that  in  due  time  the  epidemic  on  his  plan- 
tation had  subsided.  He  therefore  felt  the  sting 
of  Aunt  Polly's  reference  to  his  experience,  and 
she  emphasized  it  by  adding  : 

"If  you  had  done  as  Arthur  has,  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  have  so  many  deaths  to  answer  for 
when  Judgment  Day  comes !  " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  nonsense,  Cousin  Polly,"  he 
quickly  responded.  "  And  besides  we're  wast- 
ing time.  Of  course  you  and  Dorothy  can't 
remain  here,  exposed  to  this  dreadful  danger. 

177 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

So  Fve  ordered  my  driver  to  bring  the  carriage 
over  here  for  you  this  afternoon.  You  two 
must  be  our  guests  at  least  as  long  as  the  fever 
lasts  at  Wyanoke." 

Aunt  Polly  looked  long  and  intently  at  Pey- 
ton.   Then  she  slowly  said : 

"  The  Bible  forbids  it,  Madison,  though  I 
never  could  see  why." 

"  Forbids  what.  Cousin  Polly?  " 

"  Why,  it  says  we  mustn't  call  anybody  a 
fool  even  when  he  is  so,  and  I  never  could  un- 
derstand why." 

"  But  I  don't  understand  you,  Cousin 
Polly—" 

"  Of  course  you  don't.  I  didn't  imagine  that 
you  would.  But  that's  because  you  don't  want 
to." 

"  But  I  protest.  Cousin  Polly,  that  I've  come 
over  only  because  I'm  deeply  anxious  about 
your  health  and  Dorothy's.  You  simply 
mustn't  remain  here." 

"  Madison  Peyton,"  answered  the  old  lady, 
rising  in  her  stately  majesty  of  indignation,  "  I 
won't  call  you  a  fool  because  the  Bible  says  I 
mustn't.  But  it  is  plain  that  you  think  me  one. 
You  know  very  well  that  you're  not  in  the  least 
concerned  about  my  health.  You  know  there 
hasn't  been  a  single  case  of  fever  in  this  house 

178 


"  T  WON'T  CALL  YOU  A  FOOL  BECAUSE 
■I    THE  BIBLE  SA  YS  I  MUSTN'T.'' 


••  iVU' 


DOROTHrS  AFFAIRS 

or  within  a  mile  of  it.  You  know  you  nevet 
thought  of  removing  your  own  family  from 
your  house  when  the  fever  was  raging  in  your 
negro  quarters.  You  know  that  I  know  what 
you  want.  You  w^nt  to  get  Dorothy  under 
your  own  control,  by  taking  her  to  your  house. 
Very  well,  I  tell  you  you  cannot  do  that.  It 
would  endanger  the  health  of  your  own  family, 
for  Dorgthy  has  been  in  our  fever  camp  for  two 
days  and  night§  now,  as  head  nurse  and  Ar- 
thur's executive  officer.  Why  do  you  come 
here  trying  to  deceive  me  as  if  I  were  that  kind 
of  person  that  the  Bible  doesn't  allow  me  to 
call  you  ?  Isn't  it  hard  enough  for  me  to  do  my 
duty  in  Dorothy's  case  without  that?  Do  you 
imagine  I  find  it  a  pleasant  thing  to  carry  out 
my  orders  and  train  that  splendid  girl  to  be  the 
obedient  wife  of  such  a  booby  as  your  son  is? 
You  are  making  a  mistake.  You  tried  once  to 
intimidate  me.  You  know  precisely  how  far 
you  succeeded.  You  are  trying  now  to  deceive 
me.  You  may  guess  for  yourself  what  meas- 
ure of  success  you  are  achieving.  There  are 
spirits  in  the  sideboard,  if  you  want  something 
to  drink  after  •  well,  after  your  ride.     I 

must  ask  you  to  excuse  me  now,  as  I  have  to  go 
to  the  prize  bam  to  superintend  the  wOrk  of 
the  sewing  women." 

179 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

With  that  the  irate  old  lady  courtesied  low, 
in  mock  respect,  and  took  her  departure,  es- 
corted by  her  maid. 

Madison  Peyton  was  angry,  of  course.  That, 
indeed  is  a  feeble  and  utterly  inadequate  term 
with  which  to  describe  his  state  of  mind.  He 
felt  himself  insulted  beyond  endurance — ^and 
that,  probably,  was  what  Aunt  Polly  intended 
that  he  should  feel.  But  he  was  baffled  in  his 
purpose  also,  and  he  knew  not  how  to  endure 
that.  He  was  not  a  coward.  Had  Aunt  Polly 
been  a  man  he  would  instantly  have  called  her 
to  account  for  her  words.  Had  she  been  a 
young  woman,  he  would  have  challenged  her 
brother  or  other  nearest  male  relative.  As  it 
was  he  had  only  the  poor  privilege  of  meditat- 
ing such  vengeance  as  he  might  wreak  in  sly 
and  indirect  ways.  He  was  moved  to  many 
things,  as  he  madly  galloped  away,  but  one  after 
another  each  suggested  scheme  of  vengeance 
was  abandoned  as  manifestly  foolish,  and 
with  the  abandonment  of  each  his  chagrin  grew 
greater  and  his  anger  increased.  When  he  met 
his  carriage  on  its  way  to  Wyanoke  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  orders  he  had  given  in  the  morning, 
he  became  positively  frantic  with  rage,  so  that 
the  driver  and  the  black  boy  who  rode  behind 
the  vehicle  grew  ashen  with  terror  as  the  car- 

l8o 


DOROTHTS  AFFAIRS 

riage  was  turned  about  in  its  course,  and  took 
up  its  homeward  way. 

A  few  weeks  later  the  court  met,  and  a  mes- 
sage was  sent  to  Aunt  Polly  directing  her  to 
bring  Dorothy  before  the  judge  for  the  pur- 
pose of  having  her  choose  a  guardian.  When 
Dorothy  was  notified  of  this  she  sent  Dick  with 
a  note  to  Col.  Majors,  the  lawyer.  It  was 
not  such  a  note  as  a  young  woman  more  accus- 
tomed than  she  to  the  forms  of  life  and  law 
would  have  written.    It  ran  as  follows : 

"  Dear  Col.  Majors  : — Please  tell  the 
judge  I  can't  come.  Poor  Sally  is  very,  very 
ill  and  I  mustn't  leave  her  for  a  moment.  The 
others  need  me  too,  and  I've  got  a  lot  of  work 
to  do  putting  up  prescriptions — for  I'm  the 
druggist,  you  know.  So  tell  the  judge  he  must 
wait  till  he  comes  to  this  county  next  time. 
Give  my  love  to  Mrs.  Majors  and  dear  Patty. 
"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  Dorothy  South.'^ 

On  receipt  of  this  rather  astonishing  missive. 
Colonel  Majors  smiled  and  in  his  deliberate  way 
ordered  his  horse  to  be  brought  to  him  after 
dinner.  Riding  over  to  Wyanoke  he  "  inter- 
viewed "  Dorothy  at  the  fever  camp. 

i8i 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

He  explained  to  the  wilful  young  lady  the 
mandatory  character  of  a  court  order,  particu- 
larly in  the  case  of  a  ward  in  chancery. 

"  But  why  can't  you  do  the  business  for 
me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  tell  you  Sally  is  too  ill 
for  me  to  leave  her." 

"  But  you  must,  my  dear.  In  any  ordinary 
matter  I,  as  your  counsel,  could  act  for  you, 
but  in  this  case  the  court  must  have  you  pres- 
ent in  person,  because  you  are  to  make  choice 
of  a  guardian  and  the  court  must  be  satisfied 
that  you  have  made  the  choice  for  yourself  and 
that  nobody  else  has  made  it  for  you.  So  you 
simply  must  go.  If  you  don't  the  court  will 
send  the  sheriff  for  you,  and  then  it  will  pun- 
ish Miss  Polly  dreadfully  for  not  bringing 
you." 

This  last  appeal  conquered  Dorothy's  resist- 
ance. If  only  herself  had  been  concerned  she 
would  still  have  insisted  upon  having  her  own 
way.  But  the  suggestion  that  such  a  course 
might  bring  dire  and  dreadful  "  law  things," 
as  she  phrased  it,  upon  Aunt  Polly  appalled 
her,  and  she  consented. 

"  How  long  shall  I  have  to  leave  poor 
Sally?  "  she  asked. 

"  Only  an  hour  or  two.  You  and  Miss 
Polly  can  leave  here  in  your  carriage  about  ten 

182 


DOROTHrS  AFFAIRS 

o'clock  and  as  soon  as  you  get  to  the  Court 
House  I'll  ask  the  judge  to  suspend  other  busi- 
ness and  bring  your  matter  on.  He  will  ask 
you  whom  you  choose  for  your  guardian,  and 
you  will  answer  '  Madison  Peyton.'  Then  the 
judge  will  ask  you  if  you  have  made  your 
choice  without  compulsion  or  influence  on  the 
part  of  anybody  else,  and  you  will  answer  '  yes.' 
Then  he  will  politely  bid  you  good  morning, 
and  you  can  drive  back  to  Wyanoke  at  once." 

"Is  that  exactly  how  the  thing  is  done  ?  "  she 
asked,  with  a  peculiar  look  upon  her  face. 

"  Exactly.  You  see  it  will  give  you  no 
trouble." 

"  Oh,  no !  I  don't  mind  anything  except 
leaving  Sally.     Tell  the  judge  I'll  come." 

Col.  Majors  smiled  at  this  message,  but 
made  no  answer,  except  to  say : 

"  ril  be  there  of  course,  and  you  can  sit  by 
me  and  speak  to  me  if  you  wish  to  ask  any 
question." 

The  lawyer  made  his  adieux  and  rode  away. 
Dorothy,  with  a  peculiar  smile  upon  her  lips 
returned  to  her  patients. 


•83 


XV 

DOROTHY'S  CHOICE 

rHE  judge  himself  was  not  so  stately 
or  so  imposing  of  presence  as  was 
Aunt  Polly,  when  she  and  Dorothy 
entered  the  court,  escorted  by  Col.  Majors. 
Dorothy  was  entirely  self  possessed,  as  it  was 
her  custom  to  be  under  all  circumstances. 
"  When  people  feel  embarrassed,''  she  once 
said,  "  it  must  be  because  they  know  something 
about  themselves  that  they  are  afraid  other  peo- 
ple will  find  out."  As  Dorothy  knew  nothing 
of  that  kind  about  herself,  she  had  no  foolish 
trepidation,  even  in  the  solemn  presence  of  a 
court. 

The  judge  ordered  her  case  called,  and 
speaking  very  gently  explained  to  her  what  was 
wanted. 

"  You  are  a  young  girl  under  the  age  at 
which  the  law  supposes  you  to  be  capable  of 
managing  your  own  affairs.  The  law  makes  it 
the  duty  of  this  Court  to  guard  you  and  your 
estate  against  every  danger.    By  his  will  your 

184 


DOROTHrS  CHOICE 

father  wisely  placed  your  person  in  charge  of 
an  eminently  fit  and  proper  lady,  whose  char- 
acter and  virtues  this  Court  and  the  entire  com- 
munity in  which  we,  live,  hold  in  the  highest 
esteem  and  honour."  At  this  point  the  judge 
profoundly  bowed  to  Aunt  Polly,  and  she  ac- 
knowledged the  courtesy  with  stately  grace. 
The  judge  then  continued : 

"  By  his  will  your  father  also  placed  the  es- 
tate which  he  left  to  you,  in  charge  of  the  late 
Mr.  Robert  Brent,  a  gentleman  in  every  pos- 
sible way  worthy  of  the  trust.  Thus  far,  there- 
fore, this  Court  has  had  no  occasion  to  take 
action  of  any  kind  in  your  behalf  or  for  your 
protection.  Unhappily,  however,  your  guar- 
dian, the  late  Robert  Brent,  has  passed  away, 
and  it  becomes  now  the  duty  of  this  Court  to 
appoint  some  fit  person  in  his  stead  as  guardian 
of  your  estate.  The  Court  has  full  authority  in 
the  matter.  It  may  appoint  whomsoever  it 
chooses  for  this  position  of  high  responsibility. 
But  it  is  the  immemorial  custom  of  the  Court  in 
cases  where  the  ward  in  chancery  has  passed  his 
or  her  sixteenth  year — an  age  which  you  have 
attained — to  permit  the  ward  to  make  choice  of 
a  guardian  for  himself  or  herself,  as  the  case 
may  be.  If  the  ward  is  badly  advised,  and 
selects  a  person  whom  the  Court  deems  for  any 

185 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

reason  unfit,  the  Court  declines  to  make  the  ap-- 
pointn^ent  asked,  and  itself  selects  some  other. 
But  if  the  person  selected  by  the  ward  is  deemed 
fit,  the  Court  is  pleased  to  confirm  the  choice. 
It  is  now  my  duty  to  ask  you,  Miss  Dorothy, 
what  person  you  prefer  to  have  for  guardian 
of  yopr  estate." 

"May  I  really  choose  for  myself?"  asked 
th^  girl  in  a  clear  and  perfectly  calm  voice,  to 
the  astonishment  of  everybody. 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Dorothy.  Whom  do  you 
choose?  " 

"  Did  my  father  say  in  his  will  that  I  must 
choose  some  particular  person  ? "  she  con- 
tinued, interrogating  the  Court  as  placidly  as 
she  might  have  put  questions  to  Aunt  Polly. 

"  No,  my  dear  young  lady.  Your  father's 
will  lays  no  injunction  whatever  upon  you 
respecting  this  matter." 

"  Then,  if  you  please,  I  choose  Dr.  Arthur 
Brent  for  my  guardian.     May  we  go  now  ?  *' 

No  attention  was  given  to  the  naive  ques- 
tion with  which  the  girl  asked  permission  to 
withdraw.  Her  choice  of  guardian  was  a  com- 
plete surprise.  There  was  astonishment  on 
every  face  except  that  of  the  judge,  who  offi- 
cially preserved  an  expression  of  perfect  self- 
possession.     Even  Aunt  Polly  was  astounded, 

i86 


DOROTHrS  CHOICE 

and  she  showed  it.  It  had  been  understood  by 
everybody  that  Madison  Peyton  was  to  suc- 
ceed to  Dorothy's  guardianship,  and  the  sub- 
mission of  the  choice  to  her  had  been  regarded 
as  a  matter  of  mere  form.  Even  to  Aunt 
Polly  the  girl  had  given  no  slightest  intimation 
of  her  purpose  to  defeat  the  prearranged  pro- 
gtam,  and  so  Aunt  Polly  shared  the  general 
surprise.  But  Aunt  Polly  was  distinctly 
pleased  with  the  substitution  as  soon  at  least 
as  she  had  given  it  a  moment's  thought.  She 
had  come  to  like  Arthur  Brent  even  more  in 
his  robust  manhood  than  she  had  done  during 
his  boyish  sojourn  at  Wyanoke.  She  had 
learned  also  to  respect  his  judgment,  and  she 
saw  clearly,  now  that  it  was  suggested,  that  he 
was  obviously  the  best  person  possible  to  as- 
sume the  office  of  guardian.  She  was  pleased, 
too,  with  Madison  Peyton's  discomfiture.  "  He 
needed  to  have  his  comb  cut,"  she  reflected  in 
homely  metaphor.  "  It  may  teach  him  better 
manners." 

As  for  Peyton,  who  was  present  in  Court, 
having  come  for  the  purpose  of  accepting  the 
guardianship,  his  rage  exceeded  even  his  aston- 
ishment. He  had  in  his  youth  gone  through 
what  was  then  the  easy  process  of  securing 
admission  to  the  bar,  and  so,  although  he  had 

187 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

never  pretended  to  practise  law,  he  was  entitled 
to  address  the  Court  as  an  attorney.  He  had 
never  done  so  before,  but  on  this  occasion  he 
rose,  almost  choking  for  utterance  and  plunged 
at  once  into  a  passionate  protest,  in  which  the 
judge,  who  was  calm,  presently  checked  him, 
saying : 

"  Your  utterance  seems  to  the  Court  to  be 
uncalled  for,  while  its  manner  is  distinctly  such 
as  the  Court  must  disapprove.  The  person 
named  by  the  ward  as  her  choice  for  the  guar- 
dianship, bears  a  high  reputation  for  integrity, 
intelligence  and  character.  Unless  it  can  be 
shown  to  the  Court  that  this  reputation  is  un- 
deserved, the  ward's  choice  will  be  confirmed. 
At  present  the  Court  is  aware  of  nothing  what- 
ever in  Dr.  Brent's  character,  circumstances  or 
position  that  can  cast  doubt  upon  his  fitness. 
If  you  have  any  information  that  should  change 
the  Court's  estimate  of  his  character  you  will 
be  heard." 

"  He  is  unfit  in  every  way,"  responded  the 
almost  raving  man.  "  He  has  deliberately  un- 
dermined my  fatherly  influence  over  the  girl. 
He  has  taken  a  mean  advantage  of  me.  He  has 
overpersuaded  the  girl  to  set  aside  an  arrange- 
ment made  for  her  good  and — " 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Peyton,"  broke  in  Dorothy, 

l88 


DOROTHrS  CHOICE 

atterly  heedless  of  court  formalities,  "he  has 
done  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  knows  nothing 
about  this.    I  don't  think  he  will  even  like  it.'" 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Dorothy,"  interrupted  the 
judge.  "  Please  address  the  Court — me — and 
not  Mr.  Peyton.  Tell  me,  have  you  made  your 
choice  of  your  own  free  will  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly.  Judge,  else  I  wouldn't 
have  made  it." 

"  Has  anybody  said  anything  to  you  on  the 
subject  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Nobody  has  ever  mentioned  the 
matter  to  me  except  Col.  Majors,  and  he  told 
me  I  was  to  choose  Mr.  Peyton,  but  you  told 
me  I  could  choose  for  myself,  you  know.  I 
suppose  Col.  Majors  didn't  know  you'd  let  me 
do  that." 

A  little  laugh  went  up  in  the  bar,  and  even 
the  judge  smiled.     Presently  he  said : 

"  The  Court  knows  of  no  reason  why  it  should 
not  confirm  the  choice  made  by  the  ward.  Ac- 
cordingly it  is  ordered  that  Dr.  Arthur  Brent 
of  Wyanoke  be  appointed  guardian  of  the 
property  and  estate  of  Dorothy  South,  with 
full  authority,  subject  only  to  such  instructions 
as  this  Court  may  from  time  to  time  see  fit  to 
give  for  his  guidance.  Mr.  Clerk,  make  the 
proper  record,  and  call  the  next  case.     This 

189 


POROTHT  SOUTH 

proceeding  is  at  an  end.  You  are  at  liberty 
now  to  withdraw,  Miss  Dorothy,  you  and  Miss 
Polly." 

Aunt  Polly  rose  and  bowed  her  acknowledg- 
ments in  silence.  Dorothy  bowed  with  equal 
grace,  but  added :  "  Thank  you,  Judge.  I  am 
anxious  to  get  back  to  my  sick  people.  So  I 
will  bid  you  good  morning.  You  have  been 
extr&mely  nice  to  me.'* 

With  that  she  bowed  again  and  swept  out  of 
the  court  room,  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  eveti  by  her  courteous  adieu  she  had 
offended  against  all  the  traditions  of  etiquette 
in  a  court  of  Justice.  The  judge  bowed  and 
smiled,  and  every  lawyer  at  the  bar  instinctively 
arose,  turned  his  face  respectfully  toward  the 
withdrawing  pair,  and  remained  standing  till 
they  had  passed  through  the  outer  door,  Col. 
Majors  escorting  them. 


190 


XVI 

tJNDER  THE  CODE 

/T  was  Madison  Peyton's  habit  to  have 
his  own  way,  and  he  greatly  prided 
himself  upon  getting  it,  in  other  peo- 
ple's affairs  as  well  as  in  those  that  concerned 
himself.  He  loved  to  dominate  others,  to 
trample  upon  their  wills  and  to  impose  his  own 
upon  them.  In  a  large  degree  he  accomplished 
this,  so  that  he  regarded  himself  and  was  re- 
garded by  others  as  a  man  of  far  more  than 
ordinary  influence.  He  was  so,  in  a  certain 
way,  but  it  was  not  a  way  that  tended  to  make 
men  like  him.  On  the  contrary,  the  aggressive 
self  assertion  by  which  he  secured  influence, 
secured  for  him  also  the  very  general  dislike 
of  his  neighbors,  especially  of  those  who  most 
submissively  bowed  to  his  will.  They  hated 
him  because  they  felt  themselves  obliged  to 
submit  their  wills  to  his. 

There  was,  therefore,  a  very  general  chuckle 
of  pleasure  among  the  crowd  gathered  at  the 
'Court  House — a  crowd  which  included  nearly 

191 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

every  able-bodied  white  man  in  the  county^ 
as  the  news  of  his  discomfiture  and  of  his  out- 
break of  anger  over  it,  was  discussed.  There 
were  few  who  would  have  cared  to  twit  him 
with  it,  and  if  he  had  himself  maintained  a 
discreet  and  dignified  silence  concerning  the 
matter,  he  would  have  heard  little  or  nothing 
about  it.  But  he  knew  that  everybody  was  in 
fact  talking  of  it,  out  of  his  hearing.  He  inter- 
preted aright  the  all  pervading  atmosphere  of 
amused  interest,  and  the  fact  that  every  group 
of  men  he  approached  became  silent  and  seemed 
embarrassed  when  he  joined  it.  After  his  ag- 
gressive manner,  therefore,  he  refused  to  re- 
main silent.  He  thrust  the  subject  upon  others' 
attention  at  every  turn.  He  protested,  he 
declaimed,  at  times  he  very  nearly  raved  over 
what  he  called  the  outrage.  He  even  went  fur- 
ther in  some  cases  and  demanded  sympathy 
and  acquiescence  in  his  complainings.  For  the 
most  part  he  got  something  quite  different. 
His  neighbors  were  men  not  accustomed  to  fear, 
and  while  they  were  politely  disposed  to  refrain 
from  voluntary  expressions  of  opinion  on  this 
matter,  at  least  in  his  presence,  they  were  ready 
enough  with  answers  unwelcome  to  him  when 
he  demanded  their  opinions. 

"  Isn't  it  an  outrage,"  he  asked  of  John 

19a 


UNDER  THE  CODE 

Meaux,  ''  that  Arthur  Brent  has  undermined 
me  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Meaux  with 
a  drawl  which  always  affected  his  speech  when 
he  was  most  earnest,  "  I  cannot  see  it  in  that 
light.  Dorothy  declares  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  her  intentions,  and  we  all  know  that  Dorothy 
South  never  tells  anything  but  the  truth.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  see  why  he  isn't  entitled  to  serve 
as  her  guardian  if  she  wants  him  to  do  so.  He 
is  a  man  of  character  and  brains,  and  I  happen 
to  know  that  he  has  a  good  head  for  business." 

"  Yes,"  snarled  Peyton,  '*  I  know  you've 
been  cultivating  him — " 

"  I'll  trouble  you  to  leave  me  out  of  your 
remarks,  Mr,  Peyton,"  interrupted  Meaux. 
"  If  you  don't  you  may  have  a  quarrel  on  your 
hands." 

"  Oh,  you  know  me,  Meaux ;  you  know  I 
didn't  mean  any  harm  so  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned.   You  know  my  way — " 

"  Yes,  I  know  your  way,  and  I  don't  like  it. 
In  fact  I  won't  tolerate  it." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  come  now,  John,  don't  fly 
off  the  handle  like  that.  You  see  I'm  not  angry 
with  you,  but  how  you  can  like  this  inter- 
loper—" 

"  His  family  is  as  old  in  Virginia  as  your 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

own  is,"  answered  Meaux,  "  and  he  is  the  mas- 
ter of  the  very  oldest  plantation  in  this  county. 
Besides  he  was  born  in  Virginia  and — but 
never  mind  that.  I'm  not  counsel  for  his  de- 
fence. I  only  interrupted  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
accustomed  to  choose  my  own  friends,  and  that 
/ 1  fully  intend  to  adhere  to  that  custom." 

In  another  group  Peyton  used  even  less  tem- 
perate terms  than  "  interloper  "  in  characteriz- 
ing Arthur,  and  added : 

"  He  didn't  even  dare  come  to  court  and 
brazen  out  his  treachery.  He  left  the  job,  like 
a  sneak,  to  the  little  girl  whose  mind  he  has 
poisoned." 

Archer  Bannister  was  standing  near,  and 
heard  the  offensive  words.    He  interrupted : 

"  Mr.  Peyton,  I  earnestly  advise  you  to  re- 
tract what  you  have  just  said,  and  to  put  your 
retraction  into  writing,  giving  it  to  me  to  de- 
liver to  my  friend  Dr.  Brent ;  who  is  absent  to- 
day, as  you  very  well  know,  simply  because  he 
has  imperative  duties  of  humanity  elsewhere. 
I  assure  you  that  I  shall  report  your  offensive 
utterance  to  him,  and  it  will  be  well  for  you  if 
your  retraction  and  apology  can  be  delivered 
to  him  at  the  same  time.  Arthur  Brent  is  rap- 
idly falling  into  Virginia  ways — adopting  the 
customs  of  the  country,  he  calls  it — and  there 

194 


UNDER  THE  CODE 

is  one  of  those  customs  which  might  subject 
you  to  a  deal  of  inconvenience,  should  he  see 
fit  to  adopt  it." 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  my  affairs?" 
asked  Peyton  in  a  tone  of  offence. 

"  Nothing  whatever — at  present,"  answered 
the  young  man,  turning  upon  his  heel. 

But  the  warning  sobered  Peyton's  anger.  It 
had  not  before  occurred  to  him  that  Arthur 
might  have  become  so  far  indoctrinated  with 
Virginia  ways  of  thinking  as  to  call  him  to 
account  for  his  words,  in  the  hostile  fashion 
usual  at  that  time.  Indeed,  relying  upon  the 
fixed  habit  of  Virginians  never  to  gossip,  he 
had  not  expected  that  Arthur  would  ever  hear 
of  his  offensive  accusations.  Bannister's  noti- 
fication that  he  would  exercise  the  privilege 
accorded  by  custom  to  the  personal  friend  of  a 
man  maligned  when  not  present  to  defend  him- 
self, suggested  grave  possibilities.  He  knew 
that  custom  fully  warranted  Bannister  in  doing 
what  he  had  threatened  to  do,  and  he  had  not 
the  smallest  doubt  that  the  young  man  would 
do  it. 

It  was  in  a  mood  of  depression,  therefore^ 
that  Peyton  ordered  his  horse  and  rode  home- 
ward. His  plantation  lay  within  two  or  tliree 
miles  of  the  Court  House,  but  by  the  time  that 

195 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

he  had  arrived  there  he  had  thought  out  a  plan 
of  procedure.  He  knew  that  Bannister  would 
remain  at  the  village  inn  over  night,  having 
jury  service  to  perform  the  next  morning. 
There  was  time,  therefore,  in  which  to  reach 
him  with  a  placative  message,  and  Peyton  set 
himself  at  once  to  work  upon  the  preparation  of 
such  a  message. 

"  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,"  he  wrote, 
"  for  the  rudeness  with  which  I  spoke  to  you 
today.  I  was  extremely  angry  at  the  time, 
and  I  had  reasons  for  being  so,  of  which  you 
know  nothing,  and  of  which  I  must  not  tell 
you  anything.  Perhaps  in  my  extreme  irrita- 
tion, I  used  expressions  with  regard  to  Dr. 
Brent,  which  I  should  not  have  used  had  I  been 
calmer.  For  my  discourtesy  to  you  personally, 
I  offer  very  sincere  apologies,  which  I  am  sure 
your  generous  mind  will  accept  as  an  atone- 
ment. For  the  rest  I  must  trust  your  good 
feeling  not  to  repeat  the  words  I  used  in  a  mo- 
ment of  extreme  excitement.*' 
Archer  Bannister  wrote  in  reply: 
"The  apology  you  have  made  to  me  was 
quite  unnecessary.  I  had  not  demanded  it.  As 
for  the  rest,  I  shall  do  my  duty  as  a  friend  un- 
less you  make  apology  where  it  is  due,  namely 
to  Dr.  Arthur  Brent  whom  you  have  falsely  ac- 

196 


UNDER  THE  CODE 

cused,  and  to  whom  you  have  applied  epithets 
of  a  very  offensive  character.  If  you  choose  to 
make  me  the  bearer  of  your  apology  to  him,  I 
will  gladly  act  for  you.  I  prefer  peace  to  war, 
at  all  times." 

This  curt  note  gave  Peyton  a  very  bad  quar- 
ter hour.  He  was  not  a  coward;  or,  to  put  the 
matter  more  accurately,  he  was  not  that  kind  of 
a  coward  that  cannot  face  physical  danger.  But 
he  was  a  man  of  middle  age  or  a  trifle  more. 
He  was  the  father  of  a  family  and  an  elder  in 
the  Presbyterian  church.  Conscience  did  not 
largely  influence  him  in  any  case,  but  he  was 
keenly  sensitive  to  public  opinion.  He  knew 
that  should  he  fight  a  duel,  all  the  terrors  of  re- 
ligious condemnation  would  fall  upon  him. 
Worse  still,  he  would  be  laughed  at  for  having 
so  entangled  himself  in  a  matter  his  real  rela- 
tion to  which  he  was  not  free  to  explain.  Mad- 
ison Peyton  dreaded  and  feared  nothing  in  the 
world  so  much  as  being  laughed  at.  Added  to 
this,  he  knew  that  the  entire  community  would 
hold  him  to  be  altogether  in  the  wrong.  Ar- 
thur Brenf  s  reputation  achieved  by  his  heroic 
devotion  under  fearful  danger  at  Norfolk,  had 
been  recalled  and  emphasized  by  his  conduct  in 
the  present  fever  outbreak  on  his  own  planta- 
tion.    It  was  everywhere  the  subject  of  admir- 

197 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

ing  comment,  and  Peyton  very  well  knew  that 
nobody  in  that  community  would  for  a  mo- 
ment believe  that  Arthur  Brent  was  guilty  of 
any  meanness  or  cowardly  treachery.  His  own 
accusations,  unless  supported  by  some  sort  of 
proof,  would  certainly  recoil  upon  himself  with 
crushing  force.  He  could  in  no  way  explain 
the  anger  that  had  betrayed  him  into  the  error 
of  making  such  accusations.  He  could  not 
make  it  appear  to  anybody  that  he  had  been 
wronged  by  the  fact  that  Dorothy  South  had 
chosen  another  than  himself  for  her  guardian. 
His  anger,  upon  such  an  occasion,  would  be 
regarded  as  simply  ridiculous,  and  should  he 
permit  the  matter  to  come  to  a  crisis  he  must 
at  once  become  the  butt  of  contemptuous  jest- 
ing. 

There  was  but  one  course  open  to  him,  as  he 
clearly  saw.  He  wrote  again  to  Archer  Ban- 
nister, withdrawing  his  offensive  words  re- 
specting Arthur,  apologizing  for  them  on  the 
ground  of  momentary  excitement,  asking  Ar- 
cher to  convey  this  his  apology  to  Dr.  Brent, 
and  authorizing  the  latter  to  make  any  other 
use  of  the  letter  which  he  might  deem  proper. 

This  apology  satisfied  all  the  requirements 
of  "  the  code." 

198 


XVII 

A  REVELATION 

/T  was  Dorothy  who  gave  Arthur  the  first 
news  of  his  appointment  as  her  guard- 
ian. On  her  return  from  court  to  the 
fever  camp  she  went  first  to  see  Sally  and  the 
two  or  three  others  whose  condition  was  par- 
ticularly serious.  Then  she  went  to  Arthur, 
and  told  him  what  had  happened. 

"  The  judge  was  very  nice  to  me,  Cousin 
Arthur,  and  told  me  I  might  choose  anybody 
I  pleased  for  my  guardian,  and  of  course  I 
chose  you." 

"  You  did  ? "  asked  the  young  man  in  a 
by  no  means  pleased  astonishment.  "  Why  on 
earth  did  you  do  that,  Dorothy  ?  " 

"  Why,  because  I  wanted  you  to  be  my 
guardian,  of  course.  Don^t  you  want  to  be  my 
guardian,  Cousin  Arthur?" 

"  I  hardly  know,  child.  It  involves  a  great 
responsibility  and  a  great  deal  of  hard  work." 

"  Won't  you  take  the  responsibility  and  un- 

199 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

dertake  the  work  for  my  sake,   Cousin  Ar- 
thur?" 

"  Certainly  I  will,  my  child.  I  wasn*t  think- 
ing of  that  exactly — ^but  of  some  other  things. 
But  tell  me,  how  did  you  come  to  do  this? 
Who  suggested  it  to  you  ?  " 

"Why,  nobody.  That's  what  I  told  the 
judge,  and  when  Mr.  Peyton  got  angry  and 
said  you  had  persuaded  me  to  do  it,  I  told  him 
he  was  wrong.  Then  the  judge  stopped  him 
from  speaking  and  asked  me  about  the  matter 
and  I  told  him.  Then  he  said  very  nice  things 
about  you,  and  said  you  were  to  be  my  guard- 
ian, and  then  he  told  me  I  might  go  home  and 
I  thanked  him  and  said  good  day,  and  Col. 
Majors  escorted  us  to  the  carriage.  I  wonder 
why  Mr.  Peyton  was  so  angry  about  it.  He 
seems  to  have  been  very  anxious  to  be  my 
guardian.     I  wonder  why  ?  " 

"  I  wonder,  too,"  said  Arthur,  to  whom  of 
course  the  secret  of  Peyton's  concern  with 
Dorothy's  affairs  was  a  mystery.  He  had  not 
been  present  on  the  occasion  when  Peyton  en- 
tered his  protest  against  the  girl's  reading,  nor 
had  any  one  told  him  of  the  occurrence.  Neither 
had  he  heard  of  Peyton's  visit  to  Aimt  Polly 
on  the  occasion  of  the  outbreak  of  fever.  He 
therefore  knew  of  no  reason  for  Peyton's  desire 

200 


A  REVELATION 

to  intermeddle  in  Dorothy's  affairs,  beyond  his 
well  known  disposition  to  do  the  like  with 
everybody's  concerns.  But  Arthur  had  grown 
used  to  the  thought  of  mystery  in  everything 
that  related  to  Dorothy. 

Presently  the  girl  said,  "  Fm  going  to  write 
a  note  to  Mr.  Peyton,  now,  and  send  it  over  by 
Dick." 

"What  for,  Dorothy?" 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  tell  him  how  wrong  and 
wicked  he  is  when  he  says  you  persuaded  me  to 
do  this." 

"Did  he  say  that?" 

"  Yes,  I  told  you  so  before,  but  you  weren't 
paying  attention.  Perhaps  you  were  thinking 
about  the  poor  sick  people,  so  FU  forgive  you 
and  you  needn't  apologize.  I  must  run  away^ 
now  and  write  my  note." 

"  Please  don't,  Dorothy." 

"But  why  not?" 

"  He  will  say  I  persuaded  you  to  do  that,  toa 
It  would  embarrass  me  very  seriously  if  you 
should  send  him  any  note  now." 

Dorothy  was  quick  to  see  this  aspect  of  the 
matter,  though  without  suggestion  it  would 
never  have  occurred  to  her  extraordinarily  sim- 
ple and  candid  mind. 

It  was  not  long  after  Dorothy  left  him  when 

20I 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

Edmonia  Bannister  made  her  daily  visit  to  the 
fever  camp,  accompanied  by  her  maid  and  bear- 
ing delicacies  for  the  sick.  After  her  visit  to 
Dorothy's  quarters  Arthur  engaged  her  in  con- 
versation. He  told  her  of  what  had  happened, 
and  expressed  his  repugnance  to  the  task  thus 
laid  upon  him. 

"  I  cannot  sympathize  with  you  in  the  least," 
said  the  young  woman.  *'  I  am  glad  it  has  hap- 
pened— glad  on  more  accounts  than  one." 

**  Yes,  I  suppose  you  are,"  he  answered, 
meditatively,  "  but  that's  because  you  do  not 
understand.  I  wish  I  could  have  a  good,  long 
talk  with  you,  Edmonia,  about  this  thing — and 
some  other  things." 

He  added  the  last  clause  after  a  pause,  and 
in  a  tone  which  suggested  that  perhaps  the 
"  other  things "  were  weightier  in  his  mind 
than  this  one. 

"  Why  can't  you?  "  the  girl  asked. 

"  Why,  I  can't  leave  my  sick  people  long 
enough  for  a  visit  to  Branton.  It  will  be  many 
weeks  yet  before  I  shall  feel  free  to  leave  this 
plantation." 

The  girl  thought  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
with  unusual  deliberation : 

"  I  can  spare  an  hour  now ;  surely  you  might 
give  a  like  time.     Why  can't  we  sit  in  Dorcn 

202 


d  REVELATION 

thy's  little  porch  and  have  our  talk  now? 
Dorothy  has  gone  to  the  big  tent,  and  is  busy 
with  the  sick,  and  if  you  should  be  needed  you 
will  be  here  to  respond  to  any  call.  I  see  how 
worried  you  are,  and  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to 
help  you  with  advice — or  at  the  least  with  sym- 
pathy." 

Arthur  gladly  assented  and  the  two  repaired 
to  the  little  shaded  verandah  which  Dick  had 
built  out  of  brushwood  and  boughs  across  the 
front  of  Dorothy's  temporary  dwelling. 

"  This  thing  troubles  me  greatly,  Edmonia," 
Arthur  began,  "  and  it  depresses  me  as  pretty 
nearly  everything  else  does  nowadays.  It  com- 
pletely upsets  my  plans  and  defeats  all  my  am- 
bitions. It  adds  another  to  the  ties  of  obliga- 
tion that  compel  me  to  remain  here  and  neglect 
my  work." 

"  Is  it  not  possible,  Arthur  " — their  friend- 
ship had  passed  the  "  cousining "  stage  and 
they  used  each  other's  names  now  without  pre- 
fix— "  Is  it  not  possible,  Arthur,  for  you  to  find 
work  enough  here  to  occupy  your  life  and  em- 
ploy your  abilities  worthily?  There  ?s  no 
doubt  that  you  have  already  saved  many  lives 
by  the  skill  and  energy  with  which  you  have 
met  this  fever  outbreak,  and  your  work  will 
bear  still  better  fruit.     You  have  taught  all  of 

203 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

us  how  to  save  lives  in  such  a  case,  how  to  deal 
with  the  epidemics  that  are  common  enough  on 
plantations.  You  may  be  sure  that  nobody  in 
this  region  will  ever  again  let  a  dozen  or  twenty 
negroes  perish  in  unwholesome  quarters  after 
they  have  seen  how  easily  and  surely  you  have 
met  and  conquered  the  fever.  Dorothy  tells 
me  you  have  had  only  two  deaths  out  of  forty- 
two  cases,  and  that  no  new  cases  are  appearing. 
Surely  your  conscience  should  acquit  you  of 
neglecting  your  work,  or  burying  your  talents." 

"  Oh,  if  there  were  such  work  for  me  to  do 
all  the  time,"  the  young  man  answered,  "  I 
should  feel  easy  on  that  score.  But  this  is  an 
extraordinary  occasion.  It  will  pass  in  a  few 
weeks,  and  then — " 

"Well,  and  then— what?" 

"  Why,  then  a  life  of  idleness  and  ease,  with 
no  duties  save  such  as  any  man  of  ordinary  in- 
telligence could  do  as  well  as  I,  or  better — a  life 
delightful  enough  in  its  graceful  repose,  but 
one  which  must  condemn  me  to  rust  in  all  my 
faculties,  to  stand  still  or  retrograde,  to  leave 
undone  all  that  I  have  spent  my  youth  and  early 
manhood  in  fitting  myself  to  do.  Please  under- 
stand me,  Edmonia.  I  love  Virginia,  its  people, 
and  all  its  traditions  of  honor  and  manliness. 

204 


A  REVELATION 

But  I  am  not  fit  for  the  life  I  must  lead  here. 
All  the  education,  all  the  experience  I  have 
had  have  tended  to  unfit  me  for  it  in  precisely 
that  degree  in  which  they  have  helped  to  equip 
me  for  something  quite  different.  Then  again 
the  work  I  had  marked  out  for  myself  in  the 
world  needs  me  far  more  than  you  can  easily 
understand.  There  are  not  many  men  so  cir- 
cumstanced that  they  could  do  it  in  my  stead. 
Other  men  as  well  or  better  equipped  with 
scientific  acquirements,  and  all  that,  are  not 
free  as  I  am — or  was  before  this  inheritance  in 
Virginia  came  to  blight  my  life.  They  hav<i 
their  livings  to  make  and  must  work  only  in 
fields  that  promise  a  harvest  of  gain.  I  was 
free  to  go  anywhere  where  I  might  be  needed, 
and  to  minister  to  humanity  in  ways  that  make 
no  money  return.  My  annuities  secured  me 
quite  all  the  money  I  needed  for  my  support 
so  that  I  need  never  take  thought  for  the  mor- 
row. I  have  never  yet  received  a  fee  for  my 
ministry — for  I  regard  my  work  as  a  ministry, 
for  which  I  am  set  apart.  Other  men  have 
families  too,  and  owe  a  first  duty  to  them,  while 
I — well,  I  decided  at  the  outset  that  I  would 
never  marry." 

Arthur  did  not  end  that  sentence  as  he  would 

205 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

have  ended  it  a  year  or  even  half  a  year  before. 
He  was  g^rowing  doubtful  of  himself.  Pres- 
ently he  continued : 

'*  I  am  free  to  work  for  humanity.  My  time 
is  my  own.  I  can  spend  it  freely  in  making 
experiments  and  investigations  that  can  hardly 
fail  to  benefit  mankind.  Few  men  who  are 
equipped  for  such  studies  can  spare  time  for 
them  from  the  breadwinning.  Then  again 
when  great  epidemics  occur  anywhere,  and 
multitudes  need  me,  I  am  free  to  go  and 
serve  them.  I  have  no  family,  no  wife,  no 
children,  nobody  dependent  upon  me,  in  short 
no  obligations  of  any  kind  to  restrain  me 
from  such  service.  Such  at  least  was  my 
situation  before  my  Uncle  Robert  died.  His 
death  imposed  upon  me  the  duty  of  caring  for 
all  these  black  people.  My  first  thought  was 
of  how  I  might  most  quickly  free  myself  of  this 
restraining  obligation.  Had  the  estate  con- 
sisted only  of  houses  and  lands  and  other  in- 
animate property  I  should  have  made  short 
work  of  the  business.  I  should  have  sold  the 
whole  of  it  for  whatever  men  might  be  willing 
to  give  me  for  it;  I  should  have  devoted  the 
proceeds  to  some  humane  purpose,  and  then, 
being  free  again  I  should  have  returned  to  my 
work.     Unfortunately,  however,  in  succeeding 

206 


A  REVELATION 

to  my  uncle's  estate  I  succeeded  also  to  his  ob- 
ligations. I  planned  to  fulfil  them  once  for 
all  by  selling  the  plantation  and  using  the  pro- 
ceeds in  carrying  the  negroes  to  the  west  and 
establishing  them  upon  farms  of  their  own.  I 
still  cherish  that  purpose,  but  I  am  delayed  in 
carrying  it  out  by  the  fact  that  other  obligations 
must  first  be  discharged.  There  are  debts — 
the  hereditary  curse  of  us  Virginians — 'and  I 
find  that  the  value  of  the  plantation,  without 
the  negroes,  would  not  suffice  to  discharge  them 
and  leave  enough  to  give  the  negroes  the  little 
farms  that  I  must  provide  for  them  if  I  take 
the  responsibility  of  setting  them  free.  Still  I 
see  ways  in  which  I  think  I  can  overcome  that 
difficulty  within  two  or  three  years,  by  selling 
crops  that  Virginians  never  think  of  selling 
and  devoting  their  proceeds  to  the  discharge  of 
debts.  But  now  comes  this  new  and  burden- 
some duty  of  caring  for  Dorothy's  estate.  She 
is  now  sixteen  vears  of  age,  so  that  this  new 
burden  must  rest  upon  my  shoulders  for  five 
full  years  to  come." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  Edmonia  slowly  re- 
plied, "  and  in  great  part  I  sympathize  with 
you.  But  not  altogether.  For  one  thing  I  do 
not  share  your  belief  in  freedom  for  the  ne- 
groes.    I  am  sure  they  are  unfit  for  it,  and  it 

207 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

would  be  scarcely  less  than  cruelty  to  take 
them  out  of  the  happy  life  to  which  they  were 
born,  exile  them  to  a  strange  land,  and  con- 
demn them  to  a  lifelong  struggle  with  condi- 
tions to  which  they  are  wholly  unused,  with 
poverty  for  their  certain  lot  and  starvation  per- 
haps  for  their   fate.     They   are  happy   now. 
Why  should  you  condemn  them  to  unhappy 
lives?     They  are  secure  now  in  the  fact  that, 
sick  or  well,  in  age  and  decrepitude  as  well 
as  in  lusty  health,  they  will  be  abundantly  fed 
and  clothed  and  well  housed.    Why  should  you 
condemn  them  to  an  incalculably  harder  lot  ?  '* 
"  So  far  as  the  negroes  are  concerned,  you 
may  be  right.     Yet  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
if   I  make  them  the  owners  of   fertile  little 
farms  in  that  rapidly  growing  western  coun- 
try, without  a  dollar  of  debt,  they  will  find  it 
easy  enough  to  put  food  into  their  mouths  and 
clothes  on  their  backs  and  keep  a  comfortable 
roof  over  their  heads.   However  that  is  a  large 
question  and  perhaps  a  difficult  one.  If  it  could 
have  been  kept  out  of  politics  Virginia  at  least 
would  long  ago  have  found  means  to  free  her- 
self of  the  incubus.     But  it  is  not  of  the  ne- 
groes chiefly  that  I  am  thinking.     I  am  trying 
to  set  Arthur  Brent  free  while  taking  care  not 
to  do  them  any  unavoidable  harm  in  the  pro- 

208 


A  REVELATION 

cess.  I  want  to  return  to  my  work,  and  I  am 
sufficiently  an  egotist  to  believe  that  my  free- 
dom to  do  that  is  of  some  importance  to  the 
world." 

"  Doubtless  it  is,"  answered  the  young 
woman,  hesitatingly,  "  but  there  are  other  ways 
of  looking  at  it,  Arthur.  I  have  read  some- 
where that  the  secret  of  happiness  is  to  recon- 
cile oneself  with  one's  environment." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  That  is  an  abominable 
thought,  a  paralyzing  philosophy.  In  another 
form  the  privileged  classes  have  written  it  into 
catechisms,  teaching  their  less  fortunate  fellow 
beings  that  it  is  their  duty  to  '  be  content  in 
that  state  of  existence  to  which  it  hath  pleased 
God '  to  call  them.  As  a  buttress  to  caste  and 
class  privilege  and  despotism  of  every  kind, 
that  doctrine  is  admirable,  but  otherwise  it  is 
the  most  damnable  teaching  imaginable.  It  is 
not  the  duty  of  men  to  rest  content  with  things 
as  they  are.  It  is  their  duty  to  be  always  dis- 
contented, always  striving  to  make  conditions 
better.  '  Divine  discontent '  is  the  very  main- 
spring of  human  progress.  The  contented  peo- 
ples are  the  backward  peoples.  The  Italian 
lazzaroni  are  the  most  contented  people  in  the 
world,  and  the  most  worthless,  the  most  hope- 
less.    No,  no,  no!     No  man  who  has  brains 

209 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

should  ever  reconcile  himself  to  his  environ- 
ment. He  should  continually  struggle  to  get 
out  of  it  and  into  a  better.  We  have  liberty 
simply  because  our  oppressed  ancestors  refused 
to  do  as  the  prayer  book  told  them  they  must. 
Men  would  never  have  learned  to  build  houses 
or  cook  their  food  if  they  had  been  content  to 
live  in  caves  or  bush  shelters  and  eat  the  raw 
flesh  of  beasts.  We  owe  every  desirable  thing 
we  have — intellectual,  moral  and  physical — ^to 
the  fact  that  men  are  by  nature  discontented. 
Contentment  is  a  blight." 

Edmonia  thought  for  a  while  before  answer- 
ing.    Then  she  said: 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right,  Arthur.  I  never 
thought  of  the  matter  in  that  way.  I  have  al- 
ways been  taught  that  discontent  was  wicked — 
a  rebellion  against  the  decrees  of  Providence." 

"  You  remember  the  old  story  of  the  miller 
who  left  to  Providence  the  things  he  ought  to 
have  done  for  himself,  and  how  he  was  re- 
minded at  last  that  '  ungreased  wheels  will  not 
go?'" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Well,  in  my  view  the  most  imperative  de- 
cree of  Providence  is  that  we  shall  use  the  fac- 
ulties it  has  bestowed  upon  us  in  an  earnest 

2IO 


A  REVELATION 

and  ceaseless  endeavor  to  better  conditions,  for 
ourselves  and  for  others." 

"  But  may  it  not  sometimes  be  well  to  ac- 
cept conditions  as  a  guide — to  let  them  deter- 
mine in  what  direction  we  shall  struggle?" 

"  Certainly,  and  that  is  precisely  my  case. 
When  I  consider  the  peculiar  conditions  that 
specially  fit  me  to  do  my  proper  work  in  the 
world  it  is  my  duty,  without  doubt,  to  fight 
against  every  opposing  influence.  I  feel  that 
I  must  get  rid  of  the  conditions  that  are  now 
restraining  me,  in  order  that  I  may  fulfil  the 
destiny  marked  out  for  me  by  those  higher  con- 
ditions." 

"  Perhaps.  But  who  knows  ?  It  may  be 
that  some  higher  work  awaits  you,  here,  some 
nobler  use  of  your  faculties,  to  which  the  ap- 
parently adverse  conditions  that  now  surround 
you,  are  leading,  guiding,  compelling  you.  It 
may  be  that  in  the  end  your  unwilling  deten- 
tion here  will  open  to  you  some  opportunity  of 
service  to  humanity,  of  which  you  do  not  now 
dream." 

"  Of  course  that  is  possible,"  Arthur  an- 
swered doubtfully,  "but  I  see  no  such  pros- 
pect. I  see  only  danger  in  my  present  situa- 
tion, danger  of  falling  into  the  lassitude  and 

211 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

inertia  of  contentment.  I  saw  that  dangef 
from  the  first,  especially  when  I  first  knew 
you.  I  felt  myself  in  very  serious  danger  of 
falling  in  love  with  you  like  the  rest.  In  that 
case  I  might  possibly  have  won  you,  as  none  of 
the  rest  had  done.  Then  I  should  joyfully, 
and  almost  without  a  thought  of  other  things, 
have  settled  into  the  contented  life  of  a  well  to 
do  planter,  leaving  all  my  duties  undone." 

Edmonia  flushed  crimson  as  he  so  calmly 
said  all  this,  but  he,  kx>king  off  into  the  noth- 
ingness of  space,  failed  to  see  it,  and  a  few 
seconds  later  she  had  recovered  her  self-control. 
Presently  he  added,  still  unheeding  the  possible 
effect  of  his  words : 

"  You  saved  me  from  that  danger.  You  put 
me  under  bonds  not  to  fall  in  love  with  you, 
and  you  have  helped  me  to  keep  the  pact.  That 
danger  is  past,  but  I  begin  to  fear  another, 
and  my  only  safety  would  be  to  go  back  to  my 
work  if  that  were  possible." 

For  a  long  time  Edmonia  did  not  speak. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  trust  herself  to  do  so. 
Finally,  in  a  low,  soft  voice,  she  asked : 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  it  is  you 
fear?  We  are  sworn  friends  and  comrades, 
you  know." 

"  It  is  Dorothy,"  he  answered.    "  From  the 

>  212 


A  REVELATION 

first  I  have  been  fond  of  the  child,  but  now,  to 
my  consternation,  I  find  myself  thinking  of  her 
no  longer  as  a  child.  The  woman  in  her  is 
dawning  rapidly,  especially  since  she  has  been 
called  upon  to  do  a  woman's  part  in  this  crisis. 
She  still  retains  her  childlike  simplicity  of  mind, 
her  extraordinary  candor,  her  trusting  truth- 
fulness. She  will  always  retain  those  quali- 
ties. They  lie  at  the  roots  of  her  character. 
But  she  has  become  a  woman,  nevertheless,  a 
woman  at  sixteen.  You  must  have  observed 
that." 

"  I  have,"  the  young  woman  answered  in  a 
voice  that  she  seemed  to  be  managing  with 
difficulty.  "  And  with  her  womanhood  her 
beauty  has  come  also.  You  must  have  seen 
how  beautiful  she  has  become." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered;  "  no  one  possessed 
of  a  pair  of  eyes  could  fail  to  observe  that. 
Now  that  we  are  talking  so  frankly  and  in  the 
sympathy  of  close  friendship,  let  me  tell  you  all 
that  I  fear.  I  foresee  that  if  I  remain  here,  as 
apparently  I  must,  I  shall  presently  learn  to 
love  Dorothy  madly.  If  that  were  all  I  might 
brave  it.  But  in  an  intercourse  so  close  and 
continual  as  ours  must  be,  there  is  danger  that 
her  devoted,  childlike  affection  for  me,  may 
presently  ripen  into  something  more  serious. 

213 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

In  that  case  I  could  not  stifle  her  love  as  I 
might  my  own.  I  could  not  sacrifice  her  to  my 
work  as  I  am  ready  to  sacrifice  myself.  I  al- 
most wish  you  had  let  me  fall  in  love  with  you 
as  the  others  did." 

Again  Edmonia  paused  long  before  answer- 
ing.    When  she  spoke  at  last,  it  was  to  say: 

"  It  is  too  late  now,  Arthur." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that.  The  status  of  things  be- 
tween you  and  me  is  too  firmly  fixed  now — " 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,"  she  answered, 
"  though  that  is  a  matter  of  course.  I  was 
thinking  of  the  other  case." 

"  What?  " 

"  Why,  Dorothy.  It  is  too  late  to  prevent 
her  from  loving  you.  She  has  fully  learned 
that  lesson  already  though  she  does  not  know 
the  fact.  And  it  is  too  late  for  you  also,  though 
you,  too,  do  not  know  it — or  did  not  till  I  told 
you." 

It  was  now  Arthur's  turn  to  pause  and  think 
before  replying.  Presently,  in  a  voice  that  was 
unsteady  in  ^pite  of  himself,  he  asked : 

"  Why  do  you  think  these  dreadful  things, 
Edmonia  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  them.  I  know.  A  woman's 
instinct  is  never  at  fault  in  such  a  case — at  least 
when  she  feels  a  deep  affection  for  both  the 

214 


A  REVELATION 

parties  concerned.  And  there  is  nothing  dread- 
ful about  it.  On  the  contrary  it  offers  the  hap- 
piest possible  solution  of  Dorothy's  misfortune, 
and  it  assures  you  of  something  far  better 
worth  your  while  to  live  for  than  the  objects 
you  have  heretofore  contemplated.  I  must  go 
now.  Of  course  you  will  say  nothing  of  this 
to  Dorothy  for  the  present.  That  must  wait 
for  a  year  or  two.  In  the  meantime  in  all  you 
do  toward  directing  Dorothy's  education,  you 
must  remember  that  you  are  educating  your  fu- 
ture wife.  Help  me  into  my  carriage,  please. 
I  will  not  wait  for  my  maid.  Dick  can  bring 
her  over  later,  can't  he?  " 

"  But  tell  me,  please,"  Arthur  eagerly  asked 
as  the  young  woman  seated  herself  alone  in  the 
carriage,  "  what  is  this  *  misfortune '  of  Doro- 
thy's, this  mystery  that  is  so  closely  kept  from 
me,  while  it  darkly  intervenes  in  everything 
done  or  suggested  with  regard  to  her." 

"  I  cannot — not  now  at  least."  Then  after 
a  moment's  meditation  she  added : 

"  And  yet  you  are  entitled  to  know  it — now. 
You  are  her  guardian  in  a  double  sense.  When- 
ever you  can  find  time  to  come  over  to  Bran- 
ton,  I'll  tell  you.     Good-bye !  " 

As  the  carriage  was  starting  Edmonia  caught 
sight  of  Dick  and  called  him  to  her. 

215 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

"  Have  you  any  kittens  at  Wyanoke,  Dick?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Mony,  lots  uv  'em." 

"  Will  you  pick  out  a  nice  soft  one,  Dick,  and 
bring  it  to  me  at  Branton?  Every  old  maid 
keeps  a  cat,  you  know,  Dick,  and  so  I  want 
one. 

All  that  was  chivalric  in  Dick's  soul  re- 
sponded.. 

"I'll  put  a  Voodoo  *  on  anybody  I  ever 
heahs  a  callin'  you  a  ole  maid,  Miss  Mony,  but 
ril  git  you  de  cat." 

As  she  sank  back  among  the  cushions  the 
girl  relaxed  the  rein  she  had  so  tightly  held 
upon  herself,  and  the  tears  slipped  softly  and 
silently  from  her  eyes.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  this  brave  woman  was  sorry  for  her- 
self. 

*  The  negroes  always  properly  called  this  word  "  Voo- 
doo." Among  theatrical  folk  it  has  been  strangely  and 
senselessly  corrupted  into  "  Hoodoo."  The  negroes  be- 
lieved in  the  Voodoo  as  firmly  as  the  player  people  da 
— Author. 


2l6 


XVIII 

ALONE  IN  THE  CARRIAGE 

y^FTER  the  blind  and  blundering  fash- 
/J  ion  of  a  man,  Arthur  Brent  was  ut- 
-^  -^  terly  unconscious  of  the  blow  he  had 
dealt  to  this  woman  who  had  given  him  the 
only  love  of  her  life.  For  other  men  she  had 
felt  friendship,  and  to  a  few  she  had  willingly 
given  that  affection  which  serves  as  a  practical 
substitute  for  love  in  nine  marriages  out  of 
ten,  and  which  women  themselves  so  often  mis- 
take for  love.  But  to  this  woman  love  in  its 
divinest  form  had  come,  the  love  that  endureth 
all  things  and  surpasseth  all  things,  the  love 
that  knows  no  ceasing  while  life  lasts,  the  love 
that  makes  itself  a  willing  sacrifice.  Until  that 
day  she  had  not  herself  known  the  state  of  her 
own  soul.  She  had  not  understood  how  com- 
pletely this  man  had  become  master  of  her  life, 
how  utterly  she  had  given  herself  to  him.  And 
in  the  very  moment  that  revealed  the  truth  to 
her  the  man  she  loved  had,  with  unmeant 
cruelty,  opened  her  eyes  also  to  that  other  truth 

217 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

that  her  love  for  him  was  futile  and  must  ever 
remain  hopeless. 

She  bade  her  driver  go  slowly,  that  she  might 
think  the  matter  out  alone,  and  she  thought  it 
out.  She  was  too  proud  a  woman  to  pity  her- 
self for  long.  She  knew  and  felt  that  Arthur 
had  never  dreamed  of  the  change  which  had  so 
unconsciously  come  upon  her.  She  knew  that 
had  he  so  much  as  entertained  a  hope  of  her 
love  a  little  while  ago,  he  would  have  bent  all 
the  energies  of  his  soul  to  the  winning  of  her. 
She  knew  in  brief  that  this  man  to  whom  she 
had  unconsciously  given  the  one  love  of  her 
life,  would  have  loved  her  in  like  manner,  if 
she  had  permitted  that.  She  knew  too  that  it 
was  now  too  late. 

As  the  carriage  slowly  toiled  along  the  sandy 
road,  she  meditated,  sometimes  even  uttering 
her  thought  in  low  tones. 

*'  There  is  no  fault  in  him,"  she  reflected. 
"  It  is  not  that  he  is  blind,  but  that  I  have  hood- 
winked him.  In  deceiving  myself,  I  have  de- 
ceived him." 

Then  came  the  pleasanter  thought : 

"  At  any  rate  in  ruining  my  own  life,  I  have 
not  ruined  his,  but  glorified  it.  Had  he  loved 
and  married  me  he  would  have  been  happy,  but 
it  would  have  been  in  a  commonplace  way.  His 

2l8 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARRIAGE 

ambitions  would  have  died  slowly  but  surely. 
That  discontent,  which  he  has  taught  me  to 
understand  as  the  mainspring  of  all  that  is 
highest  and  noblest  in  human  endeavor,  would 
have  given  place  to  a  blighting  contentment  in 
such  a  life  as  that  which  he  and  I  would  have 
led  together.  It  will  be  quite  different  when  he 
marries  Dorothy.  She  too  has  the  '  divine  dis- 
content '  that  does  things.  .  She  will  be  a  help 
immeasurably  more  meet  for  him  than  I  could 
ever  have  hoped  to  be.  She  will  share  his  en- 
thusiasms, and  strengthen  them.  And  it  is  his 
enthusiasm  that  makes  him  worthy  of  a 
woman's  love.  It  is  that  which  takes  him  out 
of  the  commonplace.  It  is  that  which  sets  him 
apart  from  other  men.  It  is  that  which  makes 
him  Arthur  Brent." 

Then  her  thought  reverted  for  a  moment  to 
her  own  pitiful  case. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  asked  herself. 
"  What  use  can  I  make  of  my  life  that  shall 
make  it  worthy  of  him  ?  First  of  all  I  must  be 
strong.  He  must  never  so  much  as  suspect 
the  truth,  and  of  course  nobody  else  must  be 
permitted  even  to  guess  it.  I  must  be  a  help 
to  him,  and  not  a  hindrance.  He  must  feel  that 
my  friendship,  on  which  he  places  so  high  an 
estimate,  is  a  friendship  to  be  trusted  and  leant 

219 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

upon,  I  must  more  and  more  make  myself  his 
counsellor,  a  stimulating  helpful  influence  in 
his  life.  His  purposes  are  mainly  right,  and 
I  must  encourage  him  to  seek  their  fulfilment. 
Such  a  man  as  he  should  not  be  wasted  upon  a 
woman  like  me,  or  led  by  such  into  a  life  of  in- 
glorious ease  and  inert  content.  After  all  per- 
haps I  may  help  him  as  his  friend,  where^  as 
his  wife,  my  influence  over  his  life  and  char- 
acter would  have  been  paralyzing.  If  I  can 
help  him,  my  life  will  not  be  lost  or  ruined. 
It  need  not  even  be  unhappy.  If  my  love  for 
him  is  such  as  he  deserves,  it  will  meet  dis- 
appointment bravely.  It  will  discipline  itself 
to  service.  It  will  scorn  the  selfishness  of  idle 
bemoaning.  The  sacrifice  that  is  burnt  upon 
the  altar  is  not  in  vain  if  the  odors  of  it  placate 
the  gods.  Better  helpful  sacrifice  than  idle 
lamentation." 

Then  after  a  little  her  mind  busied  itself  with 
thoughts  less  subjective  and  more  practical. 

"  How  shall  I  best  help?  "  she  asked  herself. 
"  First  of  all  I  must  utterly  crush  selfishness  in 
my  heart.  I  must  be  a  cheerful,  gladsome  in- 
fluence and  not  a  depressing  one.  From  this 
hour  there  are  no  more  tears  for  me,  but  only 
gladdening  laughter.  I  must  help  toward  that 
end  which  I  see  to  be  inevitable.    I  must  do  all 

220 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARRIAGE 

that  is  possible  to  make  it  altogether  good.  I 
must  help  to  prepare  Dorothy  to  be  the  wife 
he  needs.  She  has  not  been  educated  for  so 
glorious  a  future.  She  has  been  carefully 
trained,  on  the  contrary,  for  a  humdrum  life 
for  which  nature  never  intended  her,  the  life  of 
submissive  wifehood  to  a  man  she  could  never 
love,  a  man  whom  she  could  not  even  respect 
when  once  her  eyes  were  opened  to  better  things 
in  manhood.  I  must  have  her  much  with  me. 
I  must  undo  what  has  been  done  amiss  in  her 
education.  I  must  help  to  fit  her  for  a  high 
ministry  to  the  unselfish  ambitions  of  the  one 
man  who  is  worthy  of  such  a  ministry.  I  must 
see  to  it  that  she  is  taught  the  very  things  that 
she  has  been  jealously  forbidden  to  learn.  I 
must  introduce  her  to  that  larger  life  from 
which  she  has  been  so  watchfully  secluded.  So 
shall  I  make  of  my  own  life  a  thing  worth 
while.  So  shall  my  love  find  a  mission  worthy 
of  its  object.    So  shall  it  be  glorified." 


221 


XIX 


DOROTHY'S  MASTER 

F"  y\^  HEN  Edmonia  drove  away,  leav- 
1/1/  ing  Arthur  alone,  he  bade  Dick 

^  ^  bring  his  horse,  and,  mounting, 

he  set  off  at  a  gallop  toward  the  most  distant 
part  of  the  plantation.  He  was  dazed  by  the 
revelation  that  Edmonia's  words  had  made  to 
him  as  to  the  state  of  his  own  mind,  and  al- 
most frightened  by  what  she  had  declared  with 
respect  to  Dorothy^s  feeling.  He  wanted  to  be 
alone  in  order  that  he  might  think  the  matter 
out. 

It  seemed  to  him  absurd  that  he  should  really 
be  in  love  with  the  mere  child  whom  he  had 
never  thought  of  as  other  than  that.  And  yet 
— yes,  he  must  admit  that  of  late  he  had  half 
unconsciously  come  to  think  of  the  woman- 
hood of  her  oftener  than  of  the  childhood.  He 
saw  clearly,  when  he  thought  of  it,  that  his 
fear  that  he  might  come  to  love  the  girl  had 
been  born  of  a  subconsciousness  that  he  had 
come  to  love  her  already. 


DOROTHrS  MASTER 

It  was  a  strange  condition  of  mind  in  which 
he  found  himself.  His  strongest  impulse  was 
to  run  away  and  thus  save  the  girl  from  himself 
and  his  love.  But  would  that  save  her?  She 
was  not  the  kind  of  woman^he  caught  him- 
self thinking  of  her  now  as  a  woman  and  not 
as  a  child — she  was  not  the  kind  of  woman 
to  love  lightly  or  to  lay  a  love  aside  as  one 
might  do  with  a  misfit  garment.  What  if  it 
should  be  true,  as  Edmonia  had  declared,  that 
Dorothy  had  already  given  him  her  heart? 
What  would  happen  to  her  in  that  case,  should 
he  go  away  and  leave  her  ?  "  But,  psha !  "  he 
thought ;  "  that  cannot  be  true.  The  child  does 
not  know  what  love  is.  And  yet,  and  yet. 
Why  did  she  choose  me  to  be  her  guardian, 
and  why,  when  I  expressed  regret  that  she  had 
done  so,  did  she  look  at  me  so,  out  of  those 
great,  solemn,  sad  eyes  of  hers,  and  ask  me, 
with  so  much  intensity  if  I  did  not  want  to  be 
her  guardian?  Was  it  not  that  she  instinct- 
ively, and  in  obedience  to  her  love,  longed  to 
place  her  life  in  my  keeping?  After  all  she 
is  not  a  child.  It  is  only  habit  that  makes  me 
think  of  her  in  that  way — habit  and  her 
strangely  childlike  confidence  in  me.  But  is 
that  confidence  childlike,  after  all?  Do  not 
women  feel  in  that  way  toward  the  men  they 

223 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

love?  Dorothy  is  fully  grown  and  sixteen 
years  of  age.  Many  a  woman  is  married  at 
sixteen." 

Of  his  own  condition  of  mind  Arthur  had 
now  no  doubt.  The  thought  had  come  to  him 
that  should  he  go  away  she  would  forget  him, 
and  he  had  angrily  rejected  it  as  a  lie.  He 
knew  she  would  never  forget.  The  further 
thought  had  come  to  him  that  in  such  case  she 
would  marry  some  other  man,  and  it  stung  him 
like  a  whip  lash  to  think  of  that.  In  brief  he 
knew  now,  though  until  a  few  hours  ago  he  had 
not  so  much  as  suspected  it,  that  he  loved  Dor- 
othy as  he  had  never  dreamed  of  loving  any 
woman  while  he  lived.  He  remembered  how 
thoughts  of  her  had  colored  all  his  thinking 
for  a  month  agone  and  had  shaped  every  plan 
he  had  formed. 

But  what  was  he  now  to  do?  "  My  life — 
the  life  I  have  marked  out  for  myself,"  he  re- 
flected, "  would  not  be  a  suitable  one  for  her." 
He  had  not  fully  formulated  the  thought  be- 
fore he  knew  it  to  be  a  falsehood.  "  She  would 
be  supremely  happy  in  such  a  life.  It  would 
livt  zest  and  interest  to  her  being.  She  would 
rejoice  in  its  sacrifices  and  share  mightily  in 
its  toil  and  its  triumphs.  She  cares  nothings  for 
the  life  of  humdnmi  case  and  luxury  that  has 

224 


DOROTHT  S  MASTER 

been  marked  out  for  her  to  live.  She  would 
care  intensely  for  a  life  of  high  endeavor.  And 
yet  I  must  save  her  from  the  sacrifice  if  I  can. 
I  must  save  her  from  myself  and  from  my  love 
if  it  be  not  indeed  too  late." 

His  horse  had  long  ago  slowed  down  to  a 
walk,  and  was  pursuing  a  course  of  its  own 
selection.  It  brought  him  now  to  the  hickory 
plantation  near  the  outer  gate  of  the  Wyanoke 
property.  Awakening  to  consciousness  of  his 
whereabouts,  Arthur  drew  rein. 

"  It  was  here  that  I  first  met  Dorothy  " — 
he  liked  now  the  sound  of  her  name  in  his 
ears — "  on  that  glorious  June  morning  when 
the  hickory  leaves  that  now  strew  the  ground 
were  in  the  full  vigor  of  their  first  maturity. 
How  confidently  she  whistled  to  her  hounds, 
and  how  promptly  they  obeyed  her  call !  What 
a  queen  she  seemed  as  she  disciplined  them,  and 
with  what  stately  grace  she  passed  me  by  with- 
out recognition  save  that  implied  in  a  sweep- 
ing inclination  of  her  person!  That  was  a 
bare  five  months  ago !  It  seems  five  years,  or 
fifty!  How  much  I  have  lived  since  then! 
And  how  large  a  part  of  my  living  Dorothy 
has  been ! " 

Presently  he  turned  and  set  off  at  a  gallop 
on  his  return  to  the  fever  camp,  his  mien  that 

225 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

of  a  strong  man  who  has  made  up  his  mind. 
His  plan  of  action  was  formed,  and  he  was 
hastening  to  carry  it  out. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  he  arrived  at  the 
camp,  and  Dorothy  met  him  with  her  report  as 
to  the  condition  of  the  sick.  She  took  his  hand 
as  he  dismounted,  and  held  it  between  her  own, 
as  was  her  custom,  quite  unconscious  of  the 
nature  of  her  own  impulses. 

"  I'm  very  tired.  Cousin  Arthur,"  she  said 
after  her  report  was  made.  ''  The  journey  to 
Court  and  all  the  rest  of  it  have  wearied  me; 
and  I  sat  up  with  Sally  last  night.  You're  glad 
she's  better,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  am,"  he  replied.  "  I  feared  yes- 
terday for  her  life,  but  your  nursing  has  saved 
her,  just  as  it  has  saved  so  many  others.  Sally 
has  passed  the  crisis  now,  and  has  nothing  to 
do  but  obey  you  and  get  well." 

He  said  this  in  a  tone  of  perplexity  and  sad- 
ness, which  Dorothy's  ears  were  quick  to  catch. 

"  You're  tired  too.  Cousin  Arthur  ?  "  she  half 
said,  half  asked. 

"  Oh,  no.     I'm  never  tired.     I—" 

"  Then  you  are  troubled.  You  are  unhappy, 
and  you  must  never  be  that.  You  never  de- 
serve it.  Tell  me  what  it  is !  I  won't  have  you 
troubled  or  unhappy." 

226 


DOROTHrS  MASTER 

"  I*m  troubled  about  you,  Dorothy.  YouVe 
been  over-straining  your  strength.  There  are 
dark  shadows  under  your  eyes,  and  your  cheeks 
are  wan  and  pale.  You  must  rest  and  make  up 
your  lost  sleep.  Here,  Dick!  Go  over  to  the 
great  house  and  bring  Chestnut  for  your  Miss 
Dorothy,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  Dorothy  answered  quickly. 
"  Don't  go,  Dick.  I  do  not  want  the  mare.  No, 
Cousin  Arthur,  I'm  not  going  to  quit  my  post. 
I  only  want  to  sleep  now  for  an  hour  or  two, — 
just  to  rest  a  little.  The  sick  people  can't  spare 
me  now." 

**  But  they  must,  Dorothy.  I  will  not  have 
you  make  yourself  ill.  You  must  go  back  to 
the  great  house  tonight  and  get  a  good  night's 
rest.     I'll  look  after  your  sick  people." 

Dorothy  loosened  her  hold  of  his  hand,  and 
retreated  a  step,  looking  reproachfully  at  him 
as  she  said : 

"  Don't  you  want  me  here,  Cousin  Arthur? 
Don't  you  care  ?  " 

"  I  do  care,  Dorothy,  dear !  I  care  a  great 
deal  more  than  I  can  ever  tell  you.  That  is 
why  I  want  you  to  go  home  for  a  rest  to- 
night. I  am  seriously  anxious  about  you.  Let 
me  explain  to  you.  When  one  is  well  and 
strong  and  gets  plenty  of  sleep,  there  is  not 

227 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

much  danger  of  infection.  But  when  one  is 
worn  out  with  anxiety  and  loss  of  sleep  as  you 
are,  the  danger  is  very  great.  You  are  not 
afraid  of  taking  the  fever.  I  don't  believe  you 
are  afraid  of  anything,  and  I  am  proud  of  you 
for  that.  But  I  am  afraid  for  you.  Think  how 
terrible  it  would  be  for  me,  Dorothy,  if  you 
should  come  down  with  this  malady.  Will  you 
not  go  home  for  my  sake,  and  for  my  sake  get 
a  good  night's  sleep,  so  that  you  may  come 
back  fresh  and  well  and  cheery  in  the  morn- 
ing? You  do  not  know,  you  can't  imagine 
how  much  I  depend  upon  you  for  my  own 
strength  and  courage.  Several  things  trouble 
me  just  now,  and  I  have  a  real  need  to  see  you 
bright  and  well  and  strong  in  the  morning. 
Won't  you  try  to  be  so  for  my  sake,  Dorothy? 
Won't  you  do  as  I  bid  you,  just  once?  " 

"  Just  once  ?  "  she  responded,  with  a  rising 
inflection.  "  Just  always,  you  ought  to  say.  As 
long  as  I  live  I'll  do  whatever  you  tell  me  to 
do — at  least  when  you  tell  me  the  truth  as 
you  are  doing  now.  You  see  I  always  know 
when  you  are  telling  the  truth.  With  other 
people  it  is  different.  Sometimes  I  can't  tell 
how  much  or  how  little  they  mean.  But  I  know 
you  so  well !  And  besides  you're  always  clumsy 
at  fibbing,  even  when  you  do  it  for  a  good  pur- 

228 


DOROTHTS  MASTER 

pose.  That's  why  I  like  you  so  much — or/* 
pausing, — "  that's  one  of  the  reasons.  Has 
Dick  gone  for  Chestnut  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Dick  always  obeys  me." 

"  Oh,  but  that's  quite  different.  You  are 
Dick's  master  you  know — "  Then  she  hesi- 
tated again,  presently  adding,  "  of  course  you 
are  my  master  too — only  in  a  different  way. 
Oh,  I  see  now ;  you're  my  guardian.  Of  course 
I  must  obey  my  guardian,  and  I'll  show  him  a 
bright,  fresh  face  in  the  morning.  Here  comes 
Dick  with  Chestnut.     Good  night — Master !  " 

From  that  hour  Dorothy  thought  of  Arthur 
always  by  that  title  of  "  master,"  though  in  the 
presence  of  others  she  never  so  addressed  him. 

Arthur  watched  her  ride  away  in  the  light 
of  the  rising  November  moon,  Dick  following 
closely  as  her  groom.  And  as  he  saw  her  turn 
at  the  entrance  to  the  woodlands  to  wave  him  a 
final  adieu,  he  said  out  loud : 

"  I  fear  it  is  indeed  too  late ! " 


229 


XX 

A  SPECIAL  DELIVERY  LETTER 

TTY'^l^Y.^    Dorothy   had   disappeared, 
1/1/  Arthur  became    conscious    of  a 

^  great  loneHness,  which  he  found 

it  difficult  to  shake  off.  Presently  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  a  letter  to  write,  a  letter  which 
he  had  decided  upon  out  there  under  the  hick- 
ory trees.  He  had  writing  materials  and  a 
table  in  his  own  small  quarters,  but  somehow 
he  felt  himself  impelled  to  write  this  letter  upon 
Dorothy's  own  little  lap  desk  and  in  Dorothy's 
own  little  camp  cottage. 

*^  Positively,  I  am  growing  sentimental !  "  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  walked  toward  Dorothy's 
house.  "  I  didn't  suspect  such  a  possibility  in 
myself.  After  all  a  man  knows  less  about  him- 
self than  about  anybody  else.  I  can  detect  tuber- 
culosis in  another,  at  a  glance.  I  doubt  if  I 
should  recognize  it  in  myself.  I  can  discover 
cardiac  trouble  by  a  mere  look  at  the  eyes  of 
the  man  afflicted  with  it.  I  know  instantly 
when  I  look  at  a  man,  what  his  temperament 

230 


A  SPECIAL  DELIVERY  LETTER 

is,  what  tendencies  he  has,  what  probabiHties, 
and  even  what  possibiHties  inhere  in  his  na- 
ture. But  what  do  I  know  about  Arthur  Brent  ? 
I  suppose  that  any  of  my  comrades  at  Bellevue 
could  have  told  me  years  ago  the  things  I  am 
just  now  finding  out  concerning  myself.  If 
any  of  them  had  predicted  my  present  condi- 
tion of  mind  a  year  ago,  I  should  have  laughed 
in  derision  of  the  stupid  misconception  of  me. 
I  thought  I  knew  myself.  What  an  idiot  any 
man  is  to  think  that !  " 

Touching  a  match  to  the  little  camphene  lamp 
on  Dorothy's  table,  he  opened  her  desk  and 
wrote. 

"  My  Dear  Edmonia  : 

"  When  you  left  me  this  afternoon,  it  was 
with  a  promise  that  on  my  next  visit  to  Branton 
you  would  tell  me  of  the  things  that  limit  Doro- 
thy's life.  It  was  my  purpose  then  to  make  an 
early  opportunity  for  the  hearing.  I  have 
changed  my  mind.  I  do  not  want  to  hear  now, 
because  when  this  knowledge  comes  to  me,  I 
must  act  upon  it,  in  one  way  or  another,  and  I 
must  act  promptly.  Should  it  come  to  me  now, 
I  should  not  be  free  to  act.  I  simply  cannot,  be- 
cause I  must  not,  leave  my  work  here  till  it  is 
done.      I  do  not  refer  now  to  those  plans  of 

231 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

which  we  spoke  today,  but  simply  to  the  fever. 
I  must  not  quit  my  post  till  that  is  at  an  end.  I 
am  a  soldier  in  the  midst  of  a  campaign.  I  can- 
not quit  my  colors  till  the  enemy  is  completely 
put  to  rout.  This  enemy — the  fever — is  an  ob- 
stinate one,  slow  to  give  way.  It  will  be  many 
weeks,  possibly  several  months,  before  I  can  en- 
tirely conquer  it.  Until  then  I  must  remain  at 
my  post,  no  matter  what  happens.  Until  then, 
therefore,  I  do  not  want  to  know  anything  that 
might  place  upon  me  the  duty  of  withdrawing 
from  present  surroundings.  I  shall  ride  over 
to  Bran  ton  now  and  then,  as  matters  here  grow 
better,  and  I  hope,  too,  that  you  will  continue 
your  compassionate  visits  to  our  fever  camp. 
But  please,  my  dear  Edmonia,  do  not  tell  me 
anything  of  this  matter,  until  the  last  negro 
in  the  camp  is  well  and  I  am  free  to  take  the 
next  train  for  New  York,  and  perhaps  the  next 
ship  for  Havre. 

"  You  will  understand  me,  I  am  sure.  I  do 
not  want  to  play  a  halting,  hesitating  part  in 
a  matter  of  such  consequence.  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  compelled  to  sit  still  when  the  time  comes 
for  me  to  act.  So  I  must  wait  till  I  am  free 
again  from  this  present  and  most  imperative 
service,  before  I  permit  myself  to  hear  that 

232 


A  SPECIAL  DELIFERT  LETTER 

which  may  make  it  my  duty  to  go  at  once  inte 
exile. 

"  In  the  meantime  I  shall  guard  my  conduct 
against  every  act,  and  lock  my  lips  against 
every  utterance  that  might  do  harm. 

"  I  have  formulated  a  plan  of  action,  and  of 
that  I  will  tell  you  at  the  first  opportunity,  be- 
cause I  want  your  counsel  respecting  it.  As 
soon  as  I  am  free,  I  shall  act  upon  it,  if  you 
do  not  think  it  too  late. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  my  dear  Edmonia,  how 
great  a  comfort  it  is  to  me  in  my  perplexity, 
that  I  have  your  sympathy  and  may  rely  upon 
your  counsel  in  my  time  of  need.  I  have  just 
now  begun  to  realize  how  little  I  know  of  my- 
self, and  your  wise  words,  spoken  today,  have 
shown  me  clearly  how  very  much  you  know 
of  me.  To  you,  therefore,  I  shall  look,  in  this 
perplexity,  for  that  guidance  for  which  I  have 
always,  hitherto,  relied, — in  mistaken  and  con- 
ceited self-confidence, — upon  my  own  judg- 
ment. Could  there  be  anything  more  precious 
than  such  friendship  and  ready  sympathy  as 
that  which  you  give  to  me?  Whatever  else 
may  happen,  now  or  hereafter,  I  shall  always 
feel  that  in  enriching  my  life  with  so  loyal,  so 
unselfish  a  friendship  as  that  which  you  have 

233 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

given  to  me,  my  Virginian  episode  has  been 
happy  in  its  fruit. 

"  Poor  Dorothy  is  almost  broken  down  with 
work  and  loss  of  sleep.  You  will  be  glad 
to  know  that  I  have  sent  her  to  the  house  for 
a  night  of  undisturbed  rest.  I  had  to  use  all 
my  influence  with  her  to  make  her  go.  And 
at  the  last  she  went,  I  think,  merely  because  she 
felt  that  her  going  would  relieve  me  of  worry 
and  apprehension.  She  is  a  real  heroine,  but 
she  has  so  much  of  the  martyr's  spirit  in  her 
that  she  needs  restraint  and  control." 

Dick  returned  to  the  camp  before  this  letter 
was  finished,  and  his  master  delivered  it  into 
his  hands  with  an  injunction  to  carry  it  to 
Branton  in  the  early  morning  of  the  next  day. 
He  knew  the  habit  of  young  women  in  Vir- 
ginia, which  was  to  receive  and  answer  all 
letters  carried  by  the  hands  of  special  messen- 
gers, before  the  nine  o'clock  breakfast  hour. 
And  there  were  far  more  of  such  letters  inter- 
changed than  of  those  that  came  and  went  by 
the  post.  For  the  post,  in  those  years,  was  not 
equipped  with  free  delivery  devices.  Most  of 
the  plantations  were  nearer  to  each  other  than 
to  the  nearest  postoffice,  and  there  were  young 
negroes  in  plenty  to  carry  the  multitudinous 

234 


d  SPECIAL  DELIFERT  LETTER 

missives  with  which  the  highly  cuhured  young 
women  of  the  time  and  country  maintained 
what  was  in  effect  a  continuous  conversation 
with  each  other.  They  wrote  to  each  other 
upon  every  conceivable  occasion,  and  often 
upon  no  occasion  at  all,  but  merely  because  the 
morning  was  fine  and  each  wanted  to  call  the 
other's  attention  to  the  fact.  If  one  read  a 
novel  that  pleased  her,  she  would  send  it  with 
a  note, — usually  covering  two  sheets  and  heav- 
ily crossed, — to  some  friend  whom  she  desired 
to  share  her  enjoyment  of  it.  Or  if  she  had 
found  a  poem  to  her  liking  in  Blackwood,  or 
some  other  of  the  English  magazines,  for 
American  periodicals  circulated  scarcely  at  all 
in  Virginia  in  those  days — except  the  Southern 
Literary  Messenger,  for  whi6h  everybody  sub- 
scribed as  a  matter  of  patriotic  duty — she  would 
rise  "  soon  ''  in  the  morning,  make  half  a  dozen 
manuscript  copies  of  it,  and  send  them  by  the 
hands  of  little  darkeys  to  her  half  dozen  bosom 
friends,  accompanying  each  with  an  astonish- 
ingly long  '*  note."  I  speak  with  authority 
here.  I  have  seen  Virginia  girls  in  the  act  of 
doing  this  sort  of  thing,  and  I  have  read  many 
hundreds  of  their  literary  criticisms.  What  a 
pity  it  is  that  they  are  lost  to  us!  For  some 
of  them  were  mightily  shrewd  both  in  con- 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

demnation  and  in  ecstatic  approval,  and  all  of 
them  had  the  charm  of  perfect  and  fearless 
honesty  in  utterance,  and  all  of  them  were 
founded  upon  an  actual  and  attentive  reading 
of  the  works  criticised,  as  printed  criticism 
usually  is  not. 


236 


XXI 

HOW  A  HIGH  BRED  DAMSEL  CONFRONTED 
FATE  AND  DUTY 

aUITE  unconsciously  Arthur  Brent 
had  prepared  a  very  bad  morning 
hour  for  the  best  friend  he  had  ever 
known.  His  letter  was  full  of  dagger  thrusts 
for  the  loving  girl's  soul.  Every  line  of  it  re- 
vealed his  state  of  mind,  and  that  state  of  mind 
was  a  very  painful  thing  for  the  sensitive 
woman,  who  loved  him  so,  to  contemplate. 
The  very  intimacy  of  it  was  a  painful  reminder ; 
the  affection  it  revealed  so  frankly  stung  her  to 
the  quick.  The  missive  told  her,  as  no  words  so 
intended  could  have  done,  how  far  removed  this 
man's  attitude  toward  her  was  from  that  of 
the  lover.  Had  his  words  been  angry  they 
might  not  have  indicated  any  impossibility  of 
love — ^they  might  indeed  have  meant  love  itself 
in  such  a  case, — love  vexed  or  baffled,  but  still 
love.  Had  they  been  cold  and  indifferent,  they 
might  have  been  interpreted  merely  as  the  lan- 
guage of  reserve,  or  as  a  studied  concealment 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

of  passion.  But  their  very  warmth  and  candol 
of  friendship  would  have  set  the  seal  of  im- 
possibility upon  her  hope  that  he  might  ever 
come  to  love  her,  if  she  had  cherished  any  such 
hope,  as  she  did  not. 

The  letter  told  her  by  its  tone  more  convinc- 
ingly than  any  other  form  of  words  could  have 
done,  that  this  man  held  her  in  close  affection 
as  a  friend,  and  that  no  thought  of  a  dearer  re- 
lationship than  that  could  at  any  time  come  to 
him. 

Edmonia  Bannister  was  a  strong  woman, 
highly  bred  and  much  too  proud  to  give  way 
to  the  weakness  of  self-pity.  She  made  no 
moan  over  her  lost  love  as  she  laid  it  away  to 
rest  forever  in  the  sepulchre  of  her  heart.  Nor 
did  she  in  her  soul  repine  or  complain  of  fate. 

"  It  is  best  for  him  as  it  is,"  she  told  herself, 
as  she  had  told  herself  before  during  that  long, 
solitary  drive  in  the  carriage ;  "  and  I  must  re- 
joice in  it,  and  not  mourn." 

The  sting  of  it  did  not  lie  in  disappointment. 
She  met  that  with  calm  mind  as  the  soldier 
faces  danger  without  flinching  when  it  comes 
to  him  hand  in  hand  with  duty.  The  agony 
that  tortured  her  was  of  very  different  origin. 
All  her  pride  of  person,  all  her  pride  of  race 
and  family,  even  her  self-respect  itself,  was 

238 


FATE  AND  DUTT 

sorely  stricken  by  the  discovery  that  she  had 
given  her  love  unasked. 

This  truth  she  had  not  so  much  as  suspected 
until  that  conversation  in  Dorothy's  little  porch 
on  the  day  before  had  revealed  it  to  her.  Then 
the  revelation  had  so  stunned  her  that  she  did 
not  realize  its  full  significance.  And  besides, 
her  mind  at  that  time  was  fully  occupied  with 
efforts  so  to  bear  herself  as  to  conceal  what 
she  regarded  as  her  shame.  Now  that  she  had 
passed  a  sleepless  night  in  company  with  this 
hideous  truth,  and  now  that  it  came  to  her  anew 
with  its  repulsive  nakedness  revealed  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning,  she  appreciated  and  ex- 
aggerated its  deformity,  and  the  realization 
was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

She  had  been  bred  in  that  false  school  of 
ethics  which  holds  a  woman  bound  to  remain 
a  stock,  a  stone,  a  glacier  of  insensibility  to  love 
until  the  man  shall  graciously  give  her  per- 
mission to  love,  by  declaring  his  own  love  for 
her.  She  believed  that  false  teaching  implicitly. 
She  was  as  deeply  humiliated,  as  mercilessly 
self-reproachful  now  as  if  she  had  committed 
an  immodesty.  She  told  herself  that  her  con- 
duct in  permitting  herself,  however  uncon- 
sciously, to  love  this  man  who  had  never  asked 
for  her  love,  had  "  unsexed  "  her — a  term  not 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

understanded  of  men,  but  one  to  which  women 
attach  a  world  of  hideous  meaning. 

"  I  am  not  well  this  morning/'  she  said  to 
her  maid  as  she  passed  up  the  stairs  in  retreat. 
"  No,  you  need  not  attend  me,"  she  added 
quickly  upon  seeing  the  devoted  serving 
woman's  purpose;  "  stay  here  instead  and  make 
my  apologies  to  my  brother  when  he  comes  out 
of  his  room,  for  leaving  him  to  breakfast 
alone." 

"Why,  Miss  Mony,  is  you  done  forgot? 
Mas*  Archer  he  ain't  here.  You  know  he  done 
stayed  at  de  tavern  at  de  Co't  House  las'  night, 
an'  a  mighty  poor  white  folksey  breakfas*  he'll 
git  too." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  had  forgotten.  So  much  the 
better.  But  don't  accompany  me.  I  want  to 
be  alone." 

The  maid  stared  at  her  in  blank  amazement. 
When  she  had  entered  her  chamber  and  care- 
fully shut  the  door,  the  woman  exclaimed : 

"  Well,  I  'clar  to  gracious !  I  ain't  never  seed 
nuffin  like  dat  wid  Miss  Mony  before !  " 

Then  with  that  blind  faith  which  her  class 
at  that  time  cherished  in  the  virtues  of  morn- 
ing coffee  as  a  panacea,  Dinah  turned  into  the 
dining  room,  and  with  a  look  of  withering 

240 


FATE  AND  DUTT 

scorn  at  the  head  dining  room  servant,  de- 
manded : 

"  Is  you  a  idiot,  Polydore  ?  Couldn't  you  see 
dat  Miss  Mony  is  seriously  decomposed  dis 
mawnin'  ?  What  you  means  by  bein'  so  stupid  ? 
What  fer  didn't  you  give  her  a  cup  o'  coffee? 
An'  why  don't  you  stir  yourself  now  an'  bring 
me  de  coffee  urn,  an'  de  cream  jug?  Don't 
Stan'  dar  starin',  nigga!     Do  you  heah?" 

Having  "  hopes  "  in  the  direction  of  this 
comely  maid,  Polydore  was  duly  abashed  by 
her  rebuke  while  full  of  admiration  for  the 
queenly  way  in  which  she  had  administered  it. 
He  brought  the  urn  and  its  adjuncts  and  ad- 
miringly contemplated  the  grace  with  which 
Dinah  prepared  a  cup  for  her  mistress. 

"  I  'clar,  Dinah,  you'se  mos'  as  fine  as  white 
ladies  dey  selves !  "  he  ventured  to  say  in  softly 
placative  tones.  But  Dinah  had  no  notion  of 
relaxing  her  dignity,  so  instead  of  acknowl- 
edging the  compliment  she  rebuffed  it,  saying : 

"Why  don't  Mas'  Archer  sen'  you  to  the 
cawnfiel',  anyhow?  Dat's  all  you'se  fit  for. 
Don'  you  see  I'se  a  waitin'  fer  you  to  bring  nle 
a  tray  an'  a  napkin,  an'  a  chaney  plate  with  a 
slice  o'  ham  on  it  ?  " 

Equipped  at  last,  the  maid,  disregarding  her 

241 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

mistress's  injunction,  marched  up  the  stairs  and 
entered  Edmonia's  room.  The  young  woman 
gently  thanked  her,  and  then,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  said: 

"  Dinah,  I  wish  you  would  get  some  jellies 
and  nice  things  ready  this  morning  and  take 
them  over  to  your  Miss  Dorothy  for  her  sick 
people.  You  can  use  the  carriage,  but  go  as 
soon  as  you  can  get  away;  and  give  my  love 
to  your  Miss  Dorothy,  and  tell  her  I  am  not 
feeling  well  this  morning.  But  tell  her,  Dinah, 
that  I'll  drive  over  this  afternoon  about  two 
o'clock  and  she  must  be  ready  to  go  with  me 
for  a  drive.  Poor  child,  she  needs  some  relax- 
ation !  " 

Having  thus  secured  immunity  from  Dinah's 
kindly  but  at  present  unwelcome  attentions, 
Edmonia  Bannister  proceeded,  as  she  phrased 
it  in  her  mind,  to  "take  herself  seriously  in 
hand.*' 

After  long  thought  she  formulated  a  pro- 
gram for  herself. 

''  My  pride  ought  to  have  saved  me  from  this 
humiliation,"  she  thought.  "  Having  failed  me 
in  that,  it  must  at  least  save  me  from  the  con- 
sequences of  my  misconduct.  I'll  wear  a  cheer- 
ful face,  whatever  I  may  feel.  I'll  cultivate 
whatever  there  is  of  jollity  in  me,  and  stilj 

242 


FATE  AND  DUTT 

better,  whatever  I  possess  of  dignity.  I'll  be 
social,  ril  entertain  continually,  as  brother  al- 
ways wants  me  to  do.  I'll  have  some  of  my 
girl  friends  with  me  every  day  and  every  night. 
I'll  busy  myself  with  every  duty  I  can  find  to 
do,  and  especially  I  shall  devote  myself  to  dear 
Dorothy.  By  the  way,  Arthur  will  expect  a 
reply  to  his  letter.  I'll  begin  my  duty-doing 
with  that." 

And  so  she  wrote : 

"  You  are  by  all  odds  the  most  ridiculous 
fellow,  my  dear  Arthur,  that- 1  have  yet  en- 
countered— ^the  most  preposterous,  wrong 
headed,  cantankerous  (I  hope  that  word  is 
good  English — and  anyhow  it  is  good  Vir- 
ginian, because  it  tells  the  truth)  sort  of  hu- 
man animal  I  ever  yet  knew.  Do  you  challenge 
proof  of  my  accusations?  Think  a  bit  and 
you'll  have  it  in  abundance.  Let  me  help  you 
think  by  recounting  your  absurdities. 

"  You  were  a  young  man,  practically  alone 
in  the  world,  with  no  fortune  except  an  annu- 
ity, which  must  cease  at  your  death.  You  had 
no  associates  except  scientific  persons  who 
never  think  of  anything  but  trilobites  and  hy- 
drocyanic acid  and  symptoms  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.    Suddenly,  and  by  reason  of  no  vir- 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

tuous  activity  of  your  own,  you  found  your- 
self the  owner  of  one  of  the  finest  estates  in 
Virginia,  and  the  head  of  one  of  its  oldest  and 
most  honored  houses.  In  brief  you  c^me  into 
an  inheritance  for  which  any  reasonable  young 
man  of  your  size  and  age  would  have  been  glad 
to  mortgage  his  hopes  of  salvation  and  cut  off 
the  entail  of  all  his  desires.  There, that's  badly 
quoted,  I  suppose,  but  it  is  from  Shakespeare, 
I  think,  and  I  mean  something  by  it — a  thing 
not  always  true  of  a  young  woman's  phrases 
when  she  tries  her  hand  at  learned  utterance. 

"  Never  mind  that.  This  favored  child  of 
Fortune,  Arthur  Brent,  M.  D.,  Ph.  D.,  etc.,  bit- 
terly complains  of  Fate  for  having  poured  such 
plenty  into  his  lap,  rescuing  him  from  a  life  of 
toil  and  trouble  and  tuberculosis — for  I'm  per- 
fectly satisfied  you  would  have  contracted  that 
malady,  whatever  it  is,  if  Fate  hadn't  saved 
you  from  it  by  compelling  you  to  come  down 
here  to  Virginia. 

"  Don't  criticise  if  I  get  my  tenses  mixed  up 
a  little,  so  long  as  my  moods  are  right.  Very 
well,  to  drop  what  my  governess  used  to  call 
'  the  historical  present,'  this  absurd  and  pre- 
posterous young  man  straightway  *  kicked 
against  the  pricks ' — ^that's  not  slang  but  a 
Biblical  quotation,    as   you   would   very  well 

244 


FATE  AND  DUTT 

know  if  you  read  your  Bible  half  as  diligently 
as  you  study  your  books  on  therapeutics.  Better 
than  that,  it  is  truth  that  I'm  telling  you.  You 
actually  wanted  to  get  rid  of  your  heritage,  to 
throw  away  just  about  the  finest  chance  a 
young  man  ever  had  to  make  himself  happy  and 
comfortable  and  contented.  You  might  even 
have  indulged  yourself  in  the  pastime  of  mak- 
ing love  to  me,  and  getting  your  suit  so  sweetly 
rejected  that  you  would  ever  afterwards  have 
thought  of  the  episode  as  an  important  part  of 
your  education.  But  you  threw  away  even  that 
opportunity. 

"  Now  comes  to  you  the  greatest  good  for- 
tune of  all,  and  it  positively  frightens  you  so 
badly  that  you  are  planning  to  run  away  from 
it — if  you  can. 

"  Badinage  aside,  Arthur, — or  should  that 
word  be  '  bandinage?  *  You  see  I  don't  know, 
and  my  dictionary  is  in  another  room,  and  any- 
how the  phrase  sounds  literary.  Now  to  go  on. 
Really,  Arthur,  you  are  a  ridiculous  person. 
You  have  had  months  of  daily,  hourly,  intimate 
association  with  Dorothy.  With  your  habits 
of  observation,  and  still  more  your  splendid 
gifts  in  that  way,  you  cannot  have  failed  to  dis- 
cover her  superiority  to  young  women  gener- 
ally.   If  you  have  failed,  if  you  have  been  so 

245 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

blind  as  not  to  see,  let  me  point  out  the  fact 
to  you.  Did  you  ever  know  a  better  mind 
than  hers  ?  Was  there  ever  a  whiter  soul  ?  Has 
she  not  such  a  capacity  of  devotion  and  loyalty 
and  love  as  you  never  saw  in  any  other  woman  ? 
Isn't  her  courage  admirable  ?  Is  not  her  truth- 
fulness something  that  a  man  may  trust  his 
honor  and  his  life  to,  knowing  absolutely  that 
his  faith  must  always  be  secure? 

"  Fie  upon  you,  Arthur.  Why  do  you  not 
see  how  lavishly  Providence  has  dealt  with 
you? 

"  But  that  is  only  one  side  of  the  matter,  and 
by  no  means  the  better  side  of  it.  On  that  side 
lies  happiness  for  you,  and  you  have  a  strange 
dislike  of  happiness  for  yourself.  You  distrust 
it.  You  fear  it.  You  put  it  aside  as  something 
unworthy  of  you,  something  that  must  impair 
your  character  and  interrupt  your  work.  Oh, 
foolish  man !  Has  not  your  science  taught  you 
that  it  is  the  men  of  rich,  full  lives  who  do  the 
greatest  things  in  this  world,  and  not  the 
starvelings?  Do  you  imagine  for  a  moment 
that  any  monkish  ascetic  could  have  written 
Shakespeare's  plays  or  Beethoven's  music  or 
fought  Washington's  campaigns  or  rendered  to 
the  world  the  service  that  Thomas  Jefferson 
gave? 

246 


FATE  AND  DUTT 

"  But  there,  I  am  wandering  from  my  point 
again.  Don't  you  see  that  it  is  your  duty  to 
train  Dorothy,  to  give  to  her  mind  a  larger  and 
better  outlook  than  the  narrow  horizon  of  our 
Virginian  life  permits  ? 

"  Anyhow,  you  shall  see  it,  and  you  shall  see 
it  now.  For  in  spite  of  your  unwillingness  to 
hear,  and  in  spite  of  your  injunction  that  I 
shall  not  tell  you  now,  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
some  things  that  you  must  know.    Listen  then. 

"  Certain  circumstances  which  I  may  not  tell 
you  either  now  or  hereafter,  render  Dorothy's 
case  a  peculiar  one.  She  was  only  a  dozen 
years  old,  or  so,  when  her  father  died,  and  he 
never  dreamed  of  her  moral  and  intellectual 
possibilities.  He  was  oppressed  with  a  great 
fear  for  her.  He  foresaw  for  her  dangers  so 
grave  and  so  great  that  he  ceaselessly  planned 
to  save  her  from  them.  To  that  end  he  de- 
creed that  she  should  learn  nothing  of  music, 
or  art  or  any  other  thing  which  he  believed 
would  prove  a  temptation  to  her.  His  one  su- 
preme desire  was  to  save  her  from  erratic  ways 
of  living,  and  so  to  hedge  her  life  about  that 
she  should  in  due  course  marry  into  a  good 
Virginia  family  and  pass  all  her  days  in  a  round 
of  commonplace  duties  and  commonplace  enjoy- 
ments.   He  had  no  conception  of  her  character, 

247 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

her  genius  or  her  capacities  for  enjoyment  of 
suffering.  He  fondly  believed  that  she  would 
be  happy  in  the  life  he  planned  for  her  as  the 
wife  of  young  Jefferson  Peyton,  to  whom,  in 
a  way,  he  betrothed  her  in  her  early  childhood, 
when  Jeff  himself  was  a  well  ordered  little  lad, 
quite  different  from  the  arrogant,  silly  young 
donkey  he  has  grown  up  to  be,  with  dangerous 
inclinations  toward  dissoluteness  and  depravity. 
"  Dr.  South  and  Mr.  Madison  Pe)rton 
planned  this  marriage,  as  something  that  was 
to  be  fulfilled  in  that  future  for  which  Dr. 
South  was  morbidly  anxious  to  provide.  Like 
many  other  people,  Dr.  South  mistook  himself 
for  Divine  Providence,  and  sought  to  order  a 
life  whose  conditions  he  could  not  foresee.  He 
wanted  to  save  his  daughter  from  a  fate  which 
he,  perhaps,  had  reason  to  fear  for  her.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  arrangement  Madison  Peyton 
wanted  his  eldest  son  to  become  master  of  Poca- 
hontas plantation,  so  that  his  own  possessions 
might  pass  to  his  other  sons  and  daughters. 
So  these  two  bargained  that  Dorothy  should 
become  Jefferson  Peyton's  wife  when  both 
should  be  grown  up.  Dr.  South  did  not  fore- 
see what  sort  of  man  the  boy  was  destined  to 
become.    Still  less  did  he  dream  what  a  woman 

248 


FATE  AND  DUTT 

Dorothy  would  be.  His  only  concern  was  that 
his  daughter  should  marry  into  a  family  as 
good  as  his  own. 

"  Now  that  Peyton  sees  what  his  son's  tend- 
encies are  he  is  more  determined  than  ever  to 
have  that  mistaken  old  bargain  carried  out.  He 
is  willing  to  sacrifice  Dorothy  in  the  hope  of 
saving  his  son  from  the  evil  courses  to  which 
he  is  so  strongly  inclined. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  this  horrible  thing 
happen,  Arthur  Brent?  You  love  Dorothy  and 
she  loves  you.  She  does  not  yet  suspect  either 
fact,  but  you  are  fully  aware  of  both.  You 
alone  can  save  her  from  a  fate  more  unhappy 
than  any  that  her  father,  in  his  foolishness, 
feared  for  her,  and  in  doing  so  you  can  at  the 
same  time  fulfil  her  father's  dearest  wish, 
which  was  that  she  should  marry  into  a  Vir- 
ginia family  of  high  repute.  Your  family 
ranks  as  well  in  this  commonwealth  as  any 
other — better  than  most.  You  are  the  head  of 
it.  You  can  save  Dorothy  from  a  life  utterly 
unworthy  of  her,  a  life  in  which  she  must  be 
supremely  unhappy.  You  can  give  to  her 
mind  that  opportunity  of  continuous  growth 
which  it  needs.  You  can  offer  to  her  the 
means  of  culture  and  happiness,  and  of  worthy 

249 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

intellectual  exercise,  which  so  rare  and  excep- 
tional a  nature  must  have  for  its  full  develop- 
ment. 

"  Are  you  going  to  do  this,  Arthur  Brent,  or 
are  you  not?  Are  you  going  to  do  the  high 
duty  that  lies  before  you,  or  are  you  going  to 
put  it  aside  for  some  imagined  duty  which 
would  be  of  less  consequence  even  if  it  were 
real  ?  Is  it  not  better  worth  your  while  to  save 
Dorothy  than  to  save  any  number  of  life's  fail- 
ures who  dwell  in  New  York's  tenements? 
Are  not  Dorothy  South's  mind  and  soul  and 
superb  capacities  of  greater  consequence  than 
the  lives  of  thousands  of  those  whose  squalor 
and  unwholesome  surroundings  are  after  all 
the  fruit  of  their  own  hereditary  indolence  and 
stupidity?  Is  not  one  such  life  as  hers  of 
greater  worth  in  the  world,  than  thousands  or 
even  millions  of  those  for  whose  amelioration 
you  had  planned  to  moil  and  toil  ?  You  know, 
Arthur,  that  I  have  little  sympathy  with  the 
thought  that  those  who  fail  in  life  should  be 
coddled  into  a  comfort  that  they  have  not 
earned.  I  do  not  believe  that  you  can  rescue 
dulness  of  mind  from  the  consequences  of  its 
own  inertia.  Nine  tenths  of  the  poverty  that 
suffers  is  the  direct  consequence  of  laziness  and 
drink.    The  other  tenth  is  sufficiently  cared  for. 

250 


FATE  AND  DUTT 

I  am  a  heretic  on  this  subject,  I  suppose.  I 
do  not  think  that  such  a  man  as  you  are  should 
devote  his  Hfe  to  an  attempt  to  upHft  those 
who  have  sunk  into  squalor  through  lack  of 
fitness  for  anything  better.  Your  abilities  may 
be  much  better  employed  in  helping  worthier 
lives.  I  never  did  see  why  we  should  send  mis- 
sionaries to  the  inferior  races,  when  all  our 
efforts  might  be  so  much  more  profitably  em- 
ployed for  the  betterment  of  worthier  people. 
Why  didn't  we  let  the  red  Indians  perish  as 
they  deserve  to  do,  and  spend  the  money  we 
have  fruitlessly  thrown  away  upon  them,  in 
providing  better  educational  opportunities  for 
a  higher  race  ? 

"  The  moral  of  all  this  is  that  you  have  found 
your  true  mission  in  the  rescue  of  Dorothy 
South  from  a  fate  she  does  not  deserve.  Fm 
going  to  help  you  in  doing  that,  but  I  will  not 
tell  you  my  plans  till  you  get  through  with 
your  fever  crusade  and  have  time  to  listen  at- 
tentively to  my  superior  wisdom. 

"  In  the  meantime  you  are  to  humble  your- 
self by  reflecting  upon  your  great  need  of  such 
counsel  as  mine  and  your  great  good  fortune 
in  having  a  supply  of  it  at  hand. 

"  I  hope  your  patients  continue  to  do  credit 
to  your  medical  skill  and  to  Dorothy's  excellent 

251 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

nursing.  I  have  sent  Dinah  over  this  morning 
with  some  deHcacies  for  the  convalescent 
among  them,  and  in  the  afternoon  I  shall  go 
over  to  the  camp  myself  and  steal  Dorothy  from 
them  and  you,  long  enough  to  give  her  a  good 
long  drive. 

"  Always  sincerely  your  Friend, 

"  Edmonia  Bannister/' 


52 


XXII 

THE  INSTITUTION  OF  THE  DUELLO 

r"  F^7"HEN  Arthur  Brent  had  read  Ed- 
l/l/  monia's  letter,  he  mounted  Gimlet 

^  ^  and  rode  away  with  no  purpose 

except  to  think.  The  letter  had  revealed  some 
things  to  him  of  which  he  had  not  before  had 
even  a  suspicion.  He  understood  now  why- 
Madison  Peyton  had  been  so  anxious  to  be- 
come Dorothy's  guardian  and  so  angry  over  his 
disappointment  in  that  matter.  For  on  the 
preceding  evening  Archer  Bannister  had  ridden 
over  from  the  Court  House  to  tell  him  of  Pey- 
ton's offensive  words  and  to  deliver  the  letter 
of  apology  into  his  hands. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  challenge  him  after 
that,"  said  Archer,  with  some  uncertainty  in  his 
tone. 

"Why  should  I  wish  to  do  so?"  Arthur 
asked  in  surprise.  "  I  have  something  very 
much  more  important  to  think  about  just  now 
than  Madison  Peyton's  opinion  of  me.  You 
yourself  tell  me  that  when  he  was  saying  all 

253 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

these  things  about  me,  he  only  got  himself 
laughed  at  for  his  pains.  Nobody  thought  the 
worse  of  me  for  anything  that  he  said,  and  cer- 
tainly nobody  would  think  the  better  of  me  for 
challenging  him  to  a  duel  and  perhaps  shooting 
him  or  getting  shot.  Of  course  I  could  not 
challenge  him  now,  as  he  has  made  a  written 
withdrawal  of  his  words  and  given  me  an 
apology  which  I  am  at  liberty  to  tack  up  on  the 
court  house  door  if  I  choose,  as  I  certainly  do 
not.  But  I  should  not  have  challenged  him  in 
any  case." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right,"  answered  Archer; 
"  indeed  I  know  you  are.  But  it  requires  a 
good  deal  of  moral  courage — more  than  I  sus- 
pect myself  of  possessing — to  fly  in  the  face  of 
Virginia  opinion  in  that  way." 

"  But  what  is  Virginia  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject of  duelling,  Archer  ?  I  confess  I  can't  find 
out." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  Why,  it  seems  to  me  that  opinion  here  on 
that  subject  is  exceedingly  inconsistent  and  con- 
tradictory. Dorothy  once  said,  when  she  was 
a  child," — there  was  a  world  of  significance  in 
the  past  tense  of  that  phrase — "  that  if  a  man 
in  Virginia  fights  a  duel  for  good  cause,  every- 
body condemns  him  for  being  so  wicked  and 

254 


INSTITUTION  OF  THE  DUELLO 

breaking  the  laws  in  that  fashion;  but  if  he 
doesn't  fight  when  good  occasion  arises,  every- 
body calls  him  a  coward  and  blames  him  more 
than  in  the  other  case.  So  I  do  not  know  what 
Virginia  opinion  is.  And  even  the  laws  do  not 
enlighten  me.  Many  years  ago  the  Legislature 
adopted  a  statute  making  duelling  a  crime,  but 
I  have  never  heard  of  anybody  being  punished 
for  that  crime.  On  the  contrary  the  statute 
seems  to  have  been  carefully  framed  to  prevent 
the  punishment  of  anybody  for  duelling.  It 
makes  a  principal  in  the  crime  of  everybody 
who  in  any  capacity  participates  in  a  duel, 
whether  as  fighter  or  second,  or  surgeon  or 
mere  looker  on.  In  other  words  it  makes  a 
principal  of  every  possible  witness,  and  then 
excuses  all  of  them  from  testifying  to  the  fact 
of  a  duel  on  the  ground  that  to  testify  to  that 
fact  would  incriminate  themselves.  I  saw  a 
very  interesting  farce  of  that  sort  played  in  a 
Richmond  court  a  month  or  so  ago.  Are  you 
interested  to  hear  about  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  tell  me!" 

"  Well,  Mr.  P.' — ^.Arthur  named  a  man  who 
has  since  become  a  famous  judge — "  had  had 
something  to  do  with  a  duel.  As  I  understand 
it  he  was  neither  principal  nor  second,  but  at 
any  rate  he  saw  the  duel  fought.    The  princi- 

^55 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

pals,  or  one  of  them,  had  been  brought  before 
the  judge  for  trial,  and  Mr.  P.  was  called  as 
a  witness.  When  a  question  was  put  to  him 
by  the  judge  himself,  Mr.  P.  replied :  *  I  am 
not  a  lawyer.  I  ask  the  privilege  of  consult- 
ing counsel  before  answering  that  question.* 
To  this  the  judge  responded :  *  To  save  time 
Mr.  P.,  I  will  myself  be  your  counsel.  As  such 
I  advise  you  to  decline  to  answer  the  question. 
Now,  as  the  judge  of  this  court,  and  not  in  my 
capacity  as  your  counsel,  I  again  put  the  ques- 
tion to  you  and  require  you,  under  penalty  of 
the  law  to  answer  it.'  Mr.  P.  answered :  *  Un- 
der advice  of  counsel,  your  Honor,  I  decline  to 
answer  the  question.'     The  judge  responded: 

*  Mr.  Sheriff,  take  Mr.  P.  into  custody.  I  com- 
mit him  for  contempt  of  court.'  Then  resum- 
ing his  attitude  as  counsel,  the  judge  said: 

*  Mr.  P.,  as  your  counsel  I  advise  you  to  ask 
for  a  writ  of  Habeas  Corpus.' 

"  *  I  ask  for  a  writ  of  Habeas  Corpus,  your 
Honor,'  answered  P. 

"  *  The  court  is  required  to  grant  the  writ,' 
said  the  judge  solemnly,  '  and  it  is  granted. 
Prepare  it  for  signature,  Mr.  Clerk,  and  serve 
it  on  the  sheriff.' 

"  The  clerical  work  occupied  but  a  brief  time. 
When  it  was  done  the  sheriff  addressing  the 

256 


INSTITUTION  OF  THE  DUELLO 

court  said :  *  May  it  please  your  Honor,  in 
obedience  to  the  writ  of  Habeas  Corpus  this 
day  served  upon  me,  I  produce  here  the  body 
of  R.  A.  P.,  and  I  pray  my  discharge  from 
further  obligation  in  the  premises/ 

"  Then  the  judge  addressed  the  prisoner, 
saying :  *  Mr.  P.  you  are  arraigned  before  this 
court,  charged  with  contempt  and  disobedience 
of  the  court's  commands.  What  have  you  to 
say  in  answer  to  the  charge  ?  '  Then  instantly 
he  added :  *  In  my  capacity  as  your  counsel,  Mr. 
P.,  I  advise  you  to  plead  that  the  charge  of  con- 
tempt which  is  brought  against  you,  rests  solely 
upon  your  refusal  to  answer  a  question  the  an- 
swer to  which  might  tend  to  subject  you  to  a 
criminal  accusation.' 

"  *  I  do  so  make  my  answer,  your  Honor/ 
said  Mr.  P. 

"  *  The  law  in  this  case,*  said  the  judge,  '  is 
perfectly  clear.  No  citizen  can  be  compelled 
to  testify  against  himself.  Mr.  P.,  you  are  dis- 
charged under  the  writ.  There  being  no  other 
testimony  to  the  fact  that  the  prisoners  at  the 
bar  have  committed  the  crime  charged  against 
them,  the  court  orders  their  discharge.  Mr. 
Clerk,  call  the  next  case  on  the  calendar.'*  Now 

*  The  court  incident  here  related  is  a  fact.  The  author 
of  this  hook  was  present  in  court  when  it  occurred.— 

AUTHOB. 

257 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

wasn't  all  that  a  roaring  farce,  with  the  judge 
duplicating  parts  after  the  *  Protean '  manner 
of  the  low  comedians  ?  " 

"  It  certainly  was/'  answered  young  Bannis- 
ter.   '*  But  what  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"  Why,  make  up  your  minds — or  our  minds 
I  should  say,  for  I  am  a  Virginian  now  with 
the  best  of  you — whether  we  will  or  will  not 
permit  duelling,  and  make  and  enforce  the  laws 
accordingly.  If  duelling  is  right  let  us  recog- 
nize it  and  put  an  end  to  our  hypocritical  palter- 
ing with  it.  I'm  not  sure  that  in  the  present 
condition  of  society  and  opinion  that  would  not 
be  the  best  course  to  pursue.  But  if  we  are 
not  ready  for  that,  if  we  are  to  go  on  legislat- 
ing against  the  practice,  for  heaven's  sake  let 
us  make  laws  that  can  be  enforced,  and  let  us 
enforce  them.  The  little  incident  I  have  related 
is  significant  in  its  way,  but  it  doesn't  suggest 
the  half  or  the  quarter  or  the  one-hundredth 
part  of  the  absurdity  of  our  dealing  with  this 
question." 

"Tell  me  about  the  rest  of  it,"  responded 
Archer,  "  and  then  I  shall  have  some  questions 
to  ask  you." 

"  Well,  as  to  the  rest  of  it,  you  have  only 
to  look  at  the  facts.  Years  ago  the  Virginia 
Legislature  went  through  the  solemn  process 

258 


INSTITUTION  OF  THE  DUELLO 

of  enacting  that  no  person  should  be  eligible  to 
a  seat  in  either  house  of  our  law  making  body, 
who  had  been  in  any  way  concerned  in  a  duel, 
either  as  principal  or  second,  since  a  date  fixed 
by  the  statute.  If  that  meant  anything  it  meant 
that  in  the  opinion  of  the  Legislature  of  Vir- 
ginia no  duellist  ought  to  be  permitted  to  be- 
come a  lawgiver.  It  was  a  statute  prescrib- 
ing for  those  who  have  committed  the  crime  of 
duelling  precisely  the  same  penalty  of  disfran- 
chisement that  the  law  applies  to  those  who 
have  committed  other  felonies.  But  there  was 
this  difference.  The  laws  forbidding  other  fel- 
onies, left  open  an  opportunity  to  prove  them 
and  to  convict  men  of  committing  them,  while 
the  law  against  duelling  carefully  made  it  im- 
possible to  convict  anybody  of  its  violation. 
To  cover  that  point,  the  Legislature  enacted 
that  every  man  elected  to  either  house  of  that 
body,  should  solemnly  make  oath  that  he  had 
not  been  in  any  wise  engaged  in  duelling  since 
the  date  named  in  the  statute.  Again  the  law- 
givers were  not  in  earnest,  for  every  year  since 
that  time  men  who  have  been  concerned  in 
duelling  within  the  prohibited  period  have  been 
elected  to  the  Legislature;  and  every  year  the 
Legislature's  first  act  has  been  to  bring  for- 
ward the  date  of  the  prohibition  and  admit  to 

259 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

seats  in  the  law  making  body  all  the  men  elected 
to  it  who  have  deliberately  defied  and  broken 
the  law.  It  deals  in  no  such  fashion  with  men 
disfranchised  for  the  commission  of  any  other 
crime.  Is  not  all  this  in  effect  an  annual  dec- 
laration by  the  Legislature  that  its  laws  in  con- 
demnation of  duelling  do  not  mean  what  they 
say?  Is  it  not  a  case  in  which  a  law  is  en- 
acted to  satisfy  one  phase  of  public  sentiment 
and  deliberately  nullified  by  legislative  act  in 
obedience  to  public  sentiment  of  an  opposite 
character  ?  '* 

*'  It  certainly  seems  so.  And  yet  I  do  not 
see  what  is  to  be  done.  You  said  just  now  that 
perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  legalize  duelling. 
Would  not  that  be  legalizing  crime?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  Duelling  is  simply  private,  per- 
sonal war.  It  is  a  crime  only  by  circumstance 
and  statute.  Under  certain  conditions  such 
war  is  as  legitimate  as  any  other,  and  the  right 
to  wage  it  rests  upon  precisely  the  same  ethical 
grounds  as  those  upon  which  we  justify  public, 
national  war.  In  a  state  of  society  in  which 
the  law  does  not  afford  protection  to  the  indi- 
vidual and  redress  of  wrongs  inflicted  upon 
him,  I  conceive  that  he  has  an  indisputable  right 
to  wage  war  in  his  own  defence,  just  as  a 
nation  has.    But  we  live  in  a  state  of  society 

260 


INSTITUTION  OF  THE  DUELLO 

quite  different  from  that.  If  Madison  Pey- 
ton or  any  other  man  had  inflicted  hurt  of  any 
kind  upon  me,  I  could  go  into  court  with  the 
certainty  of  securing  redress.  I  have  no  right, 
therefore,  to  make  personal  war  upon  him  by 
way  of  securing  the  redress  which  the  courts 
stand  ready  to  give  me  peaceably.  So  I  say 
we  should  forbid  duelling  by  laws  that  can  be 
enforced,  and  public  sentiment  should  impera- 
tively require  their  enforcement.  Till  we  are 
ready  to  do  that,  we  should  legalize  duelling 
and  quit  pretending." 

"After  all,  now  that  I  think  of  it/*  said 
young  Bannister,  "  most  of  the  duels  of  late 
years  in  Virginia  have  had  their  origin  in 
cowardice,  pure  and  simple.  They  have  been 
born  of  some  mere  personal  affront,  and  the 
principals  on  either  side  have  fought  not  to 
redress  wrongs  but  merely  because  they  were 
afraid  of  being  called  cowards.  You  at  least 
can  never  be  under  any  necessity  of  proving 
that  you  are  not  a  coward.  The  people  of  Vir- 
ginia have  not  forgotten  your  work  at  Nor- 
folk. But  I'm  glad  Peyton  apologized.  For 
even  an  open  quarrel  between  you  and  him,  and 
especially  one  concerning  Dorothy,  would  have 
been  peculiarly  embarrassing  and  it  would  have 
given  rise  to  scandal  of  an  unusual  sort." 

261 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  But  why,  Archer  ?  Why  should  a  quarrel 
between  him  and  me  be  more  productive  of 
scandal  than  one  between  any  other  pair  of 
men?    I  do  not  understand." 

"  And  I  cannot  explain,"  answered  the  other. 
"  I  can  only  tell  you  the  fact.  I  must  go  now. 
I  have  a  long  ride  to  a  bad  bed  at  the  Court 
House,  with  tedious  jury  duty  to  do  tomorrow. 
So,  good  night." 


262 


XXIII 

DOROTHY'S  REBELLION 

rHE  conversation  reported  in  the  last 
preceding  chapter  of  this  record,  oc- 
curred on  the  evening  before  Ed- 
monia  Bannister's  letter  was  written.  The 
letter,  therefore,  when  Arthur  received  it  at 
noon  of  the  next  day,  supplemented  and  in  some 
measure  explained  what  Archer  had  said  with 
respect  to  the  peculiar  inconvenience  of  a  quar- 
rel between  Dr.  Brent  and  Madison  Peyton. 

Yet  it  left  him  in  greater  bewilderment  than 
ever  concerning  Dorothy's  case.  That  is  why 
he  mounted  Gimlet  and  rode  away  to  think. 

He  understood  now  why  Madison  Pey- 
ton so  eagerly  desired  to  become  Dorothy's 
guardian.  That  would  have  been  merely  to 
take  charge  of  his  own  son's  future  estate.  But 
why  should  any  such  fate  have  been  decreed 
for  Dorothy  under  a  pretence  of  concern  for 
her  welfare  ?  What  but  wretchedness  and  cruel 
wrong  could  result  from  a  marriage  so  ill  as- 

263 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

sorted?  Why  should  a  girl  of  Dorothy's  su- 
perior kind  have  been  expected  to  marry  a 
young  man  for  whom  she  could  never  feel  any- 
thing but  contempt  ?  Why  should  her  rare  and 
glorious  womanhood  have  been  bartered  away 
for  any  sort  of  gain?  Why  had  her  father 
sought  to  dispose  of  her  as  he  might  of  a  fa- 
vorite riding  horse  or  a  cherished  picture? 

All  these  questions  crowded  upon  Arthur's 
mind,  and  he  could  find  no  answer  to  any  of 
them.  They  made  him  the  angrier  on  that  ac- 
count, and  presently  he  muttered : 

"At  any  rate  this  hideous  wrong  shall  not 
be  consummated.  Whether  I  succeed  in  setting 
myself  free,  or  fail  in  that  purpose,  I  will  pre- 
vent this  thing.  Whether  I  marry  Dorothy 
myself  or  not,  she  shall  never  be  married  by 
any  species  of  moral  compulsion  to  this  un- 
worthy young  puppy." 

Perhaps  Doctor  Brent's  disposition  to  call 
young  Peyton  by  offensive  names,  was  a  symp- 
tom of  his  own  condition  of  mind.  But  just 
at  this  point  in  his  meditations  a  thought  oc- 
curred which  almost  staggered  him. 

"  What  if  Dr.  South  has  left  somewhere  a 
written  injunction  to  Dorothy  to  carry  out  his 
purpose?  Would  she  not  play  the  part  of 
martyr  to  duty?   Would  she  not,  in  misdirected 

264 


DOROTHrS  REBELLION 

loyalty,  obey  her  dead  father's  command,  at 
whatever  cost  to  herself?  " 

Arthur  knew  with  how  much  of  positive 
worship  Dorothy  regarded  the  memory  of  her 
father.  He  remembered  how  loyally  she  had 
accepted  that  father's  commands  forbidding  her 
to  learn  music  or  even  to  listen  to  it  in  any 
worthy  form.  He  remembered  with  what  un- 
questioning faith  the  girl  had  accepted  his 
strange  dictum  about  every  woman's  need  of 
a  master,  and  how  blindly  she  believed  his 
teaching  that  every  woman  must  be  bad  if  she 
is  left  free.  Would  she  not  crown  her  loyalty 
to  that  dead  father's  memory  by  making  this 
final  self-sacrifice,  when  she  should  learn  of 
his  command,  as  of  course  she  must?  In  view 
of  the  extreme  care  and  minute  attention  to 
detail  with  which  Dr.  South  had  arranged  to 
hold  his  daughter's  fate  in  mortmain,  there 
could  be  little  doubt  that  he  had  somehow 
planned  to  have  her  informed  of  this  his  su- 
preme desire,  at  some  time  selected  by  himself. 

At  this  moment  Arthur  met  the  Branton  car- 
riage, bearing  Edmonia  and  Dorothy. 

"You  are  playing  truant,  Arthur,"  called 
Edmonia.  "  You  must  go  back  to  your  sick 
people  at  once,  for  I've  kidnapped  your  head 
nurse  and  I  don't  mean  to  return  her  to  you 

265 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

till  six.  She  is  to  dine  with  me  at  Branton. 
So  ride  back  to  your  duty  at  once,  before  Dick 
shall  be  seized  with  an  inspiration  to  give  some- 
body a  dose  of  strychnine  as  a  substitute  for 
sweet  spirits  of  nitre." 

"  Oh,  no,  Edmonia,"  broke  in  Dorothy,  "  we 
must  drive  back  to  the  camp  at  once.  Cousin 
Arthur  needs  his  ride.  You  don't  know.  I  tell 
you  he's  breaking  down.  Yes  you  are.  Cousin 
Arthur,  so  you  needn't  shake  your  head.  That 
isn't  quite  truthful  in  you.  You  work  night 
and  day,  and  lately  you've  had  a  dreadfully 
worn  and  tired  look  in  your  eyes.  I've  no- 
ticed it  and  all  last  night,  when  you  had  sent 
me  away  to  sleep,  I  lay  awake  thinking  about 
it." 

Edmonia  smiled  at  this.  Perhaps  she  recog- 
nized it  as  a  symptom — in  Dorothy.  She  only 
said  in  reply: 

"  Don't  worry  about  Arthur.  I  am  worried 
only  about  you,  and  Fm  going  to  take  you  to 
Branton.    Am  I  not,  Arthur?  " 

"  I  sincerely  hope  so,"  he  replied.  "  And  there 
is  not  the  slightest  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
keep  her  for  the  night  if  you  will.  She  is 
really  not  needed  at  the  hospital  till  tomorrow. 
I'm  honest  and  truthful  when  I  say  that,  Dor- 
othy.   Dick  and  I  can  take  care  of  everything 

266 


DOROTHTS  REBELLION 

till  tomorrow,  and  I'll  see  to  it  that  Dick's  in- 
spirations are  restricted  to  poetry.  So  take 
her,  Edmonia,  and  keep  her  till  tomorrow. 
And  don't  let  her  talk  too  much." 

"  Oh,  I'm  going  to  take  her.  She  is  impolite 
enough  not  to  want  to  go  but  she  is  much  too 
young  to  have  a  will  of  her  own — yet.  As  for 
Dick,  he's  already  in  the  throes.  He  is  con- 
structing a  new  *  song  ballad  '  on  the  sorrowful 
fate  of  the  turkey.    It  begins : 

*  Tukkey  in  de  bacca  lot, 
A  pickin'  off  de  hoppa's/ 

but  it  goes  no  further  as  yet  because  Dick  can't 
find  any  rhyme  for  '  hopper  '  except  '  copper ' 
and  '  proper  '  and  *  stopper,'  which  I  suggested, 
and  they  don't  serve  his  turn.  He  came  to  me 
to  ask  if  '  gobblers '  would  not  do,  but  I  dis- 
couraged that  extreme  of  poetic  license." 

"  Edmonia,"  said  Dorothy  as  soon  as  the  car- 
riage had  renewed  its  journey,  "  did  you  really 
think  it  impolite  in  me  not  to  want  to  go  with 
you?" 

"  No,  you  silly  girl." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  You  see  I  think  there  is 
nothing  so  unkind  as  impoliteness.  But  really 
I  think  it  is  wrong  for  me  to  go.  Why  didn't 
you  take  Cousin  Arthur  instead?  You  don't 
know  how  badly  he  needs  rest." 

267 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

Edmonia  made  no  direct  reply  to  this.    In- 
stead, she  said  presently: 

"  Arthur  is  one  of  the  best    men    I    know. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Dorothy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  altogether  the  best.  I  can't  think 
of  anybody  to  compare  him  with — not  even 
Washington.  He's  a  hero  you  know.  I  often 
read  over  again  all  the  newspapers  that  told 
about  what  he  did  in  Norfolk,  and  of  course 
he's  just  like  that  now.  He  never  thinks  of 
himself,  but  always  of  others.  There  never 
was  any  man  like  him  in  all  the  world.  That's 
why  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  going  to  Branton 
and  leaving  him  alone  when  if  I  were  at  my 
post,  he  might  get  some  of  the  sleep  that  he 
needs  so  much.  Edmonia,  I'm  not  going  to 
Branton !  Positively  I  can't  and  I  won't.  So 
if  you  don't  tell  the  driver  to  turn  back,  I'll 
open  the  carriage  door  and  jump  out  and  walk 
back." 

Curiously  enough  Edmonia  made  no  further 
resistance.  Perhaps  she  had  already  accom- 
plished the  object  she  had  had  in  view.  At  any 
rate  she  bade  the  driver  turn  about,  and  upon 
her  arrival  at  the  camp  she  offered  Arthur  no 
further  explanation  than  he  might  infer  from 
her  telling  him: 

"  I've  brought  back  the  kidnapped  nurse.    I 

268 


DOROTHrS  REBELLION 

couldn't  win  her  away  from  you  even  for  a  few 
hours.  See  that  you  reward  her  devotion  with 
all  possible  good  treatment." 

"  You  are  too  funny  for  anything,  Ed- 
monia/'  said  Dorothy  as  she  stepped  from  the 
carriage.  "  As  if  Cousin  Arthur  could  treat 
me  in  any  but  the  best  of  ways !  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  so  sure  on  that  point.  He'll 
bear  watching  anyhow.  He's  '  essenteric/  as 
Dick  said  the  other  day  in  a  brave  but  hopeless 
struggle  with  the  word  '  eccentric'  But  I  must 
go  now  or  I  shall  be  late  for  dinner,  and  I'm 
expecting  some  friends  who  care  more  than 
Dorothy  does  for  my  hospitality." 

"  Oh,  please,  Edmonia — " 

"  Don't  mind  me,  child.  I  was  only  jesting. 
You  are  altogether  good  and  sweet  and  lov- 
able/' 

She  looked  at  Arthur  significantly  as  she  em- 
phasized that  last  word. 

The  young  man  thereupon  took  Dorothy's 
hands  in  his,  looked  her  in  the  eyes,  and  said : 

"  Edmotiia  is  right,  dear.  You  are  altogether 
good  and  sweet  and  lovable.  But  you  ought  to 
have  taken  some  rest  and  recreation." 

"  How  could  I,  when  I  knew  you  needed 
me?" 


269 


XXIV 

TO  GIVE  DOROTHY  A  CHANCE 

/T  was  nearly  the  Christmas  time  when 
Arthur  finally  broke  up  the  fever  camp. 
He  decided  that  the  outbreak  was  at 
an  end  and  the  need  of  a  hospital  service  no 
longer  pressing.  The  half  dozen  patients  who 
remained  at  the  camp  were  now  so  far  advanced 
on  the  road  to  recovery  that  he  felt  it  safe  to 
remove  them  to  the  new  quarters  at  the  Silver 
Spring. 

He  had  sent  Dorothy  home  a  week  before, 
saying : 

"  Now,  Dorothy,  dear,  we  have  conquered 
the  enemy — you  and  I — and  a  glorious  con- 
quest it  has  been.  We  have  had  forty-seven 
cases  of  the  disease,  some  of  them  very  severe, 
and  there  have  been  only  two  deaths.  Even 
they  were  scarcely  attributable  to  the  fever,  as 
both  the  victims  were  old  and  decrepit,  having 
little  vitality  with  which  to  resist  the  malady. 
It  is  a  record  that  ought  to  teach  the  doctors 

270 


TO  GIVE  DOROTHTA  CHANCE 

and  planters  of  Virginia  something  as  to  the 
way  in  which  to  deal  with  such  outbreaks.  I 
shall  prepare  a  little  account  of  it  for  their 
benefit  and  publish  it  in  a  medical  journal. 
But  I  never  can  tell  you  how  greatly  I  thank 
you  for  your  help." 

"  Please  don't  talk  in  that  way,"  Dorothy 
hastily  rejoined.  "  Other  people  may  thank 
me  for  things  whenever  they  please,  but  you 
never  must." 

"  But  why  not,  Dorothy?  " 

"  Why,  because — well,  because  you  are  the 
Master.  I  won't  have  you  thanking  me  just 
like  other  people.  It  humiliates  me.  It  is  like 
telling  me  you  didn't  expect  me  to  do  my  duty. 
No,  that  isn't  just  what  I  mean.  It  is  like  tell- 
ing me  that  you  think  of  Dorothy  just  as  you 
do  of  other  people,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
I  can't  make  out  just  what  I  mean,  but  I  will 
not  let  you  thank  me." 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  he  answered. 
"  But  at  any  rate  you'll  permit  me  to  tell  you, 
that  in  my  honest  judgment  as  a  physician, 
there  would  have  been  many  more  deaths  than 
there  have  been,  if  I  had  not  had  you  to  help 
me.  Your  own  tireless  nursing,  and  the  ex- 
traordinary way  in  which  you  have  made  all 
the  negro  nurses  carry  out  my  orders  to  the 

271 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

letter,  have  saved  many  lives  without  any 
possibility  of  doubt." 

"  Then  I  have  really  helped?  " 

"  Yes,  Dorothy.  I  cannot  make  you  know 
how  much  you  have  helped — how  great  an  as- 
sistance, how  great  a  comfort  you  have  been  to 
me  in  all  this  trying  time." 

"  I  am  very  glad — very  glad." 

That  was  all  the  answer  she  could  make  for 
tears.    It  was  quite  enough. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  send  you  home,  Doro- 
thy, to  get  some  badly  needed  rest  and  sleep, 
and  to  bring  the  color  back  to  your  cheeks.  I 
am  going  home  myself  too.  I  need  only  ride 
over  here  twice  a  day  to  see  that  the  getting 
well  goes  on  satisfactorily,  and  in  a  week's 
time  I  shall  break  up  the  camp  entirely,  and 
send  the  convalescents  to  their  quarters.  It 
will  be  safe  to  do  so  then.  In  the  meantime  I 
want  you  to  think  of  Christmas.  We  must 
make  it  a  red  letter  day  at  Wyanoke,  to  cele- 
brate our  victory.  We'll  have  a  '  dining  day,' 
as  a  dinner  party  is  queerly  called  here  in  Vir- 
ginia, with  a  dance  in  the  evening.  I'll  have 
some  musicians  up  from  Richmond.  You  are 
to  send  out  the  invitations  at  once,  please,  and 
we'll  make  this  the  very  gladdest  of  Christ- 


mases." 


272 


TO  GIVE  DOROTHT  A  CHANCE 

"  May  I  take  my  Mammy  home  with  me  ?  " 
the  girl  broke  in.  ''  She  has  been  so  good  to 
me,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  Dorothy,  and  I  wish  you  would  keep 
her  there  '  for  all  the  time,'  as  you  sometimes 
say.  There's  a  comfortable  house  by  the  gar- 
den you  know,  and  we'll  give  her  that  for  her 
home  as  long  as  she  lives.  You  shall  pick  out 
one  or  two  of  the  nicest  of  the  negro  girls  to 
wait  on  her  and  keep  house  for  her,  and  make 
her  old  age  comfortable." 

Dorothy  ejaculated  a  little  laugh. 

"  Mammy  would  drive  them  all  out  of  the 
house  in  ten  seconds,"  she  said,  "  and  call  them 
*  dishfaced  devils,'  and  more  different  kinds 
of  other  ugly  names  than  you  ever  heard  of. 
Old  as  she  is,  she's  very  strong,  and  she'll  never 
let  anybody  wait  on  her.  She  calls  the  present 
generation  of  servants  *a  lot  o'  no  'count 
niggas,  dat  ain't  fit  fer  nothin'  but  to  be  plague- 
some.' But  you  are  very  good  to  let  me  give 
her  the  house.     Thank  you,  Cousin  Arthur." 

"Oh,  Dorothy,"  answered  Arthur,  "I 
thought  you  always  *  played  fair '  as  the  chil- 
dren say." 

"Why,  what  have  I  done?"  the  girl  asked 
almost  with  distress  in  her  tone. 

"  Why,  you  thanked  me,  after  forbidding  me 

273 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

to  thank  you  for  an  immeasurably  greater 
service." 

"Oh,  but  that's  different/'  she  replied. 
"  You  are  the  Master.    I  am  only  a  woman." 

"  Dorothy,"  said  Arthur  seriously,  "  don't 
you  know  I  think  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
better  or  nobler  than  a  woman?  " 

"  That's  because  you  are  a  man  and  don't 
know,"  she  answered  out  of  a  wisdom  so  su- 
perior that  it  would  not  argue  the  point. 

During  the  next  week  Arthur  found  time  in 
which  to  prepare  and  send  off  for  publication 
a  helpful  article  on  "  The  Plantation  Treat- 
ment of  Typhoid  Epidemics."  He  also  found 
time  in  which  to  ride  over  to  Branton  and  hold 
a  prolonged  conference  with  Edmonia  Bannis- 
ter. Before  a  hickory  wood  fire  in  the  great 
drawing  room  they  went  over  all  considera- 
tions bearing  upon  Arthur's  affairs  and  plans 
and  possibilities. 

"  This  is  the  visitation  you  long  ago  threat- 
ened me  with,"  said  Edmonia.  "  You  said  you 
would  come  when  the  stress  of  the  fever  should 
be  over,  and  you  told  me  you  had  some  plan  in 
your  mind.    Tell  me  what  it  was." 

"  Oh,  your  past  tense  is  correct  there ;  that 
was  before  you  wrote  to  me  about  Dorothy. 
Your  letter  put  an  end  to  that  scheme  at  once." 

274 


TO  GIVE  DOROTHY  A  CHANCE 

"Did  it?    I'm  very  glad." 

"  But  why  ?  You  don't  know  what  it  was 
that  I  had  in  mind." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Perhaps  I  have  a  shrewd 
idea  as  to  the  general  features  of  your  plan. 
At  any  rate  I'm  perfectly  sure  that  it  was  un- 
worthy of  you." 

''  Why  do  you  think  that,  Edmonia?  Surely 
I  have  not — " 

"  Oh,  yes  you  have — if  you  mean  that  you 
haven't  deserved  to  be  thought  ill  of.  You  have 
wanted  to  run  away  from  your  duty  and  your 
happiness,  and  it  was  that  sort  of  thing  you 
had  in  mind.  Otherwise  you  wouldn't  have 
needed  to  plan  at  all.  Besides,  you  said  you 
didn't  want  to  have  this  conversation  with  me, 
or  to  hear  about  Dorothy  till  you  should  be 
'  free  to  act.'  You  meant  by  that  '  free  to  run 
away.'  That  is  why  I  wrote  you  about 
Dorothy." 

"  Listen,  Edmonia ! "  said  the  young  man 
pleadingly.  "  Don't  think  of  me  as  a  coward 
or  a  shirk!  Don't  imagine  that  I  have  been 
altogether  selfish  even  in  my  thoughts !  I  did 
plan  to  run  away,  as  you  call  it.  But  it  was 
not  to  escape  duty — for  I  didn't  know,  then, 
that  I  had  a  duty  to  do.  Or  rather  I  thought 
that  my  duty  called  upon  me  to  '  run  away.* 

27s 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

Will  you  let  me  tell  you  just  what  I  felt  and 
thought,  and  what  the  plan  was  that  I  had  in 
mind?'' 

"  Surely,  Arthur.  I  did  not  really  think  you 
selfish,  and  certainly  I  did  not  think  you  cow- 
ardly. If  I  had,  I  should  have  taken  pains  to 
save  Dorothy  from  you.  But  tell  me  the  whole 
story." 

"  I  will.  When  we  began  our  conversation 
in  Dorothy's  little  porch,  I  was  just  beginning 
to  be  afraid  that  I  might  learn  to  love  her.  She 
had  so  suddenly  matured,  somehow.  Her 
womanhood  seemed  to  have  come  upon  her  as 
the  sunrise  does  in  the  tropics  without  any  pre- 
monitory twilight.  It  was  the  coming  of  seri- 
ous duty  upon  her,  I  suppose  that  wrought  the 
change.  At  any  rate,  with  the  outbreak  of  the 
fever,  she  seemed  to  take  on  a  new  character. 
Without  losing  her  childlike  trustfulness  and 
simplicity,  she  suddenly  became  a  woman, 
strong  to  do  and  to  endure.  And  her  beauty 
came  too,  so  that  I  caught  myself  thinking  of 
her  when  I  ought  to  have  been  thinking  of 
something  else." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Edmonia  broke  in.  "  I  know 
all  that  and  sympathize  with  it.  You  remem- 
ber I  found  it  all  out  before  you  did." 

276 


TO  GIVE  DOROTHT  A  CHANCE 

"Yes,  I  was  coming  to  that.  Perhaps  I 
wandered  from  my  story  a  bit — " 

"  You  did,  of  course.  But  under  the  circum- 
stances I  forgive  you.    Go  on." 

"  Well,  when  you  told  me  it  was  too  late  for 
me  to  save  myself  from  loving  Dorothy,  I 
knew  you  were  right,  though  I  had  not  sus- 
pected it  before.  I  hoped,  however,  that  it 
might  not  be  too  late  to  save  Dorothy  from 
myself.  I  did  not  want  to  lure  her  to  a  life 
that  was  sure  to  bring  much  of  trial  and  hard 
work  and  sympathetic  suffering  to  her.*' 

"  But  why  not  ?  Isn't  such  a  life,  with  the 
man  she  loves,  very  greatly  the  happiest  one 
she  could  lead  ?  Have  you  studied  her  charac- 
ter to  so  little  purpose  as  to  imagine — " 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  he  broke  in.  "  I  saw  all  that 
when  I  thought  the  matter  out,  after  you  left 
the  camp  that  day.  But  at  first  I  didn't  see  it, 
and  I  didn't  want  Dorothy  sacrificed— espe- 
cially to  me." 

"  No  woman  is  sacrificed  when  she  is  per- 
mitted to  share  the  work,  the  purposes,  the  as- 
pirations of  the  man  she  loves.  How  men  do 
misjudge  women  and  misunderstand  them! 
It  is  not  ease,  or  wealth,  or  luxury  that  makes 
a    woman    happy — for    many    a    woman    is 

277 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

wretched  with  all  these — it  is  love,  and  love 
never  does  its  work  so  perfectly  in  a  woman's 
soul  as  when  it  demands  sacrifice  at  her  hands." 

Edmonia  said  this  oracularly,  as  she  sat  star- 
ing into  the  fire.  Arthur  wondered  where  she 
had  learned  this  truth,  seeing  that  love  had 
never  come  to  her  either  to  offer  its  rewards 
or  to  demand  sacrifice  at  her  hands.  She  caught 
his  look  and  was  instantly  on  her  guard  lest  h\3 
shrewd  gift  of  observation  should  penetrate  her 
secret. 

"  You  wonder  how  I  know  all  this,  Arthur," 
she  quickly  added.  "  I  see  the  question  in  your 
face.  For  answer  I  need  only  remind  you  that 
I  am  a  woman,  and  a  woman's  intuitions  some- 
times serve  her  as  well  as  experience  might. 
Go  on,  and  tell  me  what  it  was  you  planned 
before  I  wrote  you  concerning  Dorothy's  case. 
What  was  the  particular  excuse  you  invented 
at  that  time  for  running  away  ?  " 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence  now,  but  I  don't 
mind  telling  you.  I  conceived  the  notion  of 
freeing  myself  from  the  obligations  that  tie  me 
here  in  Virginia  by  giving  Wyanoke  and  all 
that  pertains  to  it  to  Dorothy." 

"  I  almost  wish  you  had  proposed  that  to 
Dorothy.  I  should  have  been  an  interested  wit- 
ness of  the  scorn  and  anger  which  she  would 

278 


TO  GIVE  DOROTHT  A  CHANCE 

have  visited  upon  your  poor  foolish  head.  It 
would  have  taken  you  five  years  to  undo  that 
mistake.  But  those  five  years  would  have  been 
years  of  suffering  to  Dorothy ;  so  on  the  whole 
I'm  glad  you  didn't  make  the  suggestion. 
What  spasm  of  returning  reason  restrained 
you  from  that  crowning  folly  ?  " 

"  Your  letter,  of  course.  When  you  told  me 
that  those  who  had  assumed  the  role  of  Special 
Providence  to  Dorothy  had  planned  to  marry 
her  to  that  young  Jackanapes — " 

"  Don't  call  him  contemptuous  names,  Ar- 
thur. He  doesn't  need  them  as  a  label,  and 
it  only  ruffles  your  temper.  Go  on  with  what 
you  were  saying." 

"  Well,  of  course,  you  see  how  the  case 
stood.  Even  if  I  had  not  cared  for  Dorothy  in 
any  but  a  friendly  way,  I  should  have  felt  it  to 
be  the  very  highest  duty  of  my  life  to  save  her 
from  this  hideous  thing.  I  decided  instantly 
that  whatever  else  might  happen  I  would  save 
Dorothy  from  this  fate.  So  I  have  worked 
out  a  new  plan,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me 
carry  it  out." 

"  Go  on.  You  know  you  may  count  upon 
me. 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  take  Dorothy  away 
from  here.     I  want  you  to  show  her  a  larger 

279 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

world  than  she  has  ever  dreamed  of.  I  want 
you  to  take  her  to  Washington,  Baltimore  and 
New  York  and  introduce  her  to  the  best  society 
there  is  there.  Then  I  want  you  to  take  her  to 
Europe  for  a  year.  She  must  see  pictures  and 
sculpture,  and  the  noblest  examples  of  architec- 
ture there  are  in  the  world.  That  side  of  her 
nature  which  has  been  so  wickedly  cramped  and 
crippled  and  dwarfed,  must  be  cultivated  and 
developed.  She  must  hear  the  greatest  music 
there  is,  and  see  the  greatest  plays  and  the  great- 
est players.  Fortunately  she  is  fluent  in  her 
French  and  she  readily  understands  Italian. 
Her  capacity  for  enjoyment  is  matchless.  It 
is  that  of  a  full-souled  woman  who  has  been 
starved  on  this  side  of  her  nature.  You  once 
bade  me  remember  that  in  anything  I  did  to- 
ward educating  her  I  was  educating  my  future 
wife.  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  prove  to  be 
so  or  not.  But  in  any  case  this  thing  must  be 
done.  She  must  know  all  these  higher  joys  of 
life  while  yet  she  is  young  enough  to  enjoy 
them  to  the  full,  and  she  must  have  the  educa- 
tion they  will  bring  to  her.  She  will  be  seven- 
teen in  March— only  three  months  hence.  She 
is  at  the  age  of  greatest  susceptibility  to  im- 
pressions." 

"  Your  thought  mightily  pleases  me,  Ar- 

280 


TO  GIVE  DOROTHT  A  CHANCE 

thur,"  said  Edmonia.  "  But  I  warn  you  there 
is  serious  danger  in  it." 

"  Danger  for  Dorothy?  " 

"  No.     But  danger  for  you." 

"  That  need  not  matter.    You  mean  that — " 

"  I  mean  just  that.  In  all  this  Dorothy  will 
rapidly  change — at  least  in  her  points  of  view. 
Her  conceptions  of  life  will  undergo  something 
like  a  revolution.  At  the  end  of  it  all  she  may 
not  care  for  any  such  life  as  you  can  offer  her, 
especially  as  she  will  meet  many  brilliant  men 
under  circumstances  calculated  to  make  the 
most  of  their  attractions.  She  may  transfer 
her  love  for  you,  which  is  at  present  a  thing 
quite  unconsciously  felt,  to  some  one  who  shall 
ask  for  it.  For  I  suppose  you  will  say  nothing 
to  her  now  that  might  make  her  conscious  of 
her  state  of  mind  and  put  her  under  bonds  to 
you?" 

"  Quite  certainly,  no !  My  tongue  shall  be 
dumb  and  even  my  actions  and  looks  shall  be 
kept  in  leash  till  she  is  gone.  Can't  you  under- 
stand, Edmonia — " 

"  I  understand  better  than  you  think,  and  I 
honor  you  for  your  courage  and  your  unselfish- 
ness. You  want  this  thing  done  in  order  that 
Dorothy  may  have  the  fullest  possible  chance 
in  life  and  in  love — in  order  that  if  there  be  in 

281 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

this  world  a  higher  happiness  for  her  than  an}? 
that  you  can  offer,  she  may  have  it?  " 

"  That  is  precisely  my  thought,  Edmonia. 
You  have  expressed  it  far  better  than  I  could 
have  done.  I  don't  want  to  take  an  unfair 
advantage  of  Dorothy,  as  I  suppose  I  easily 
might.  I  don't  want  her  to  accept  my  love 
and  agree  to  share  my  life,  in  ignorance  of 
what  better  men  and  better  things  there  may  be 
for  her  elsewhere.  If  I  am  ever  to  make  her 
my  own,  it  must  be  after  she  knows  enough 
to  choose  intelligently.  Should  she  choose 
some  other  life  than  that  which  I  can  offer, 
some  other  love  than  mine,  she  must  never 
know  the  blight  that  her  choice  cannot  fail  to 
inflict  upon  me.  As  for  myself,  I  have  my 
crucibles  and  my  work,  and  I  should  be  better 
content,  knowing  that  she  was  happy  in  some 
life  of  her  own  choosing,  than  knowing  that  I 
had  made  her  mine  by  taking  unfair  advantage 
of  her  inexperience." 

"  Arthur  Brent,"  said  Edmonia,  rising,  not 
to  dismiss  him,  but  for  the  sake  of  giving  em- 
phasis to  her  utterance,  "  you  are — well,  let  me 
say  it  all  in  a  single  phrase — you  are  worthy 
of  Dorothy  South.  You  are  such  a  man  as 
women  of  the  higher  sort  dream  of,  but  rarely 
meet.     It  is  not  quite  convenient  for  me  to 

282 


TO  GIVE  DOROTHT  A  CHANCE 

undertake  this  mission  for  you  just  now,  but 
convenience  must  courtesy  to  my  will.  I'll  ar- 
range the  matter  with  Dorothy  at  once  and 
we'll  be  off  in  a  fortnight  or  less.  Fortunately 
no  dressmaking  need  detain  us,  for  we  must 
have  our  first  important  gowns  made  in  Rich- 
mond and  Baltimore,  a  larger  supply  in  New 
York,  and  then  Paris  will  take  care  of  its  own. 
I'll  have  some  trouble  with  Aunt  Polly,  of 
course;  she  regards  travel  very  much  as  she 
does  manslaughter,  but  you  may  safely  leave 
her  to  me." 

"  But,  Edmonia,  you  said  this  thing  would 
subject  you  to  some  inconvenience?" 

"  So  it  will.  But  that's  a  trifle.  I  had  half 
promised  to  spend  July  at  the  White  Sulphur, 
but  that  can  wait  for  another  July.  Now  you 
are  to  tell  me  goodby  a  few  minutes  hence  and 
ride  away.  For  I  must  write  a  note  to  Doro- 
thy— no,  on  second  thoughts  I'll  drive  over 
and  see  her  and  Aunt  Polly,  and  you  are  to 
remain  here  and  dine  with  brother.  Dorothy 
and  I  are  going  to  talk  about  clothes,  and  we 
shan't  want  any  men  folk  around.  I'll  dine  at 
Wyanoke,  and  by  tomorrow  we'll  have  half  a 
dozen  seamstresses  at  work  making  things 
enough  to  last  us  to  Baltimore." 

"  But  tell  me,  Edmonia,"  said  Arthur,  be- 

283 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

ginning  to  think  of  practical  things,  "  can  you 
and  Dorothy  travel  alone  ?  " 

"  We  could,  if  it  were  necessary.  You  know 
I've  been  abroad  twice  and  I  know  *  the  tricks 
and  the  manners '  of  Europe.  But  it  will  not 
be  necessary.  I  enjoy  the  advantage  of  having 
been  educated  at  Le  Febvre's  School,  in  Rich- 
mond. That  sort  of  thing  has  its  compensa- 
tions. Among  them  is  the  fact  that  it  is  apt  to 
locate  one's  friendships  variously  as  to  place. 
I  have  a  schoolmate  in  New  York — a  school- 
mate of  five  or  six  years  ago,  and  a  very  dear 
friend — Mildred  Livingston.  She  is  married 
and  rich  and  restless.  She  likes  nothing  so 
much  as  travel  and  I  happen  to  know  that  she 
is  just  now  planning  a  trip  to  Europe.  I'll 
write  to  her  today  and  we'll  go  together.  As 
her  husband,  Nicholas  Van  Rensselaer  Livings- 
ton, hasn't  anything  else  to  do  he'll  go  along 
just  to  look  after  the  baggage  and  swear  in 
English,  which  they  don't  understand,  at  the 
Continental  porters  and  their  kind.  He's  really 
very  good  at  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  It  is  well  for  a  man  to  be  good  at  some- 
thing." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  I've  often  said  so  to  Mil- 
dred. Besides  he  worships  the  ground — or  the 
carpets,  rather, — that  she  walks  on.     For  he 

284 


TO  GIVE  DOROTHT  A  CHANCE 

never  lets  her  put  her  foot  on  the  ground  if 
he  can  help  it.  He's  a  dear  fellow — in  his  way 
— and  Mildred  is  really  fond  of  him — especially 
when  he's  looking  after  the  tickets  and  the  bag- 
gage. Now  you  must  let  me  run  away.  You 
are  to  stay  here  and  dine  with  brother,  you 
know." 


285 


XXV 

AUNT  POLLY'S  VIEW  OF  THE  RISKS 

^^DDLY  enough  Edmonia  had  very  little 
#  J  of  the  difficulty  she  had  anticipated  in 
^^-^  securing  Aunt  Polly's  consent  to  the 
proposed  trip.  Perhaps  the  old  lady's  opin- 
ions with  respect  to  the  detrimental  effects  of 
travel  were  held  like  her  views  on  railroads 
and  the  rotundity  of  the  earth,  humorously 
rather  than  with  seriousness.  Perhaps  she  ap- 
preciated, better  than  she  would  admit,  the  ad- 
vantages Dorothy  was  likely  to  reap  from  an 
introduction  to  a  larger  world.  Perhaps  she 
did  not  like  the  task  set  her  of  cramping  Doro- 
thy's mind  and  soul  to  the  mould  of  a  marriage 
with  young  Jeff  Peyton.  Certain  it  is  that 
she  did  not  look  forward  to  that  fruition  of  her 
labors  as  Dorothy's  personal  guardian  with 
anything  like  pleasure.  While  she  felt  her- 
self bound  to  carry  out  her  instructions,  she 
felt  no  alarm  at  the  prospect  of  having  their 
purpose  defeated  in  the  end  by  an  enlargement 

286 


AUNT  POLLrS  FIEJF 

of  horizon  which  would  prompt  Dorothy  to  re- 
belHon.  Perhaps  all  these  things,  and  perhaps 
something  else.  Perhaps  Aunt  Polly  suspected 
the  truth,  and  rejoiced  in  it.  Who  shall  say? 
Who  shall  set  a  limit  to  the  penetration  of  so 
shrewd  a  woman,  after  she  has  Hved  for  more 
than  half  a  century  with  her  eyes  wide  open 
and  her  mind  always  quick  in  sympathy  with 
those  whom  she  loves? 

Whatever  the  reason  of  her  complaisance 
may  have  been,  she  yielded  quickly  to  Ed- 
monia's  persuasions,  offering  only  her  general 
deprecation  of  travel  as  an  objection  and 
quickly  brushing  even  that  aside. 

"  I  can*t  understand,''  she  said,  "  why  peo- 
ple who  are  permitted  to  live  and  die  in  Vir- 
ginia should  want  to  go  gadding  about  in  less 
desirable  places.  But  we've  let  the  Yankees 
build  railroads  down  here,  and  we  must  take 
the  consequences.  Everybody  wants  to  travel 
nowadays  and  Dorothy  is  like  all  the  rest,  I 
suppose.  Anyhow,  you'll  be  with  her,  Ed- 
monia,  and  so  she  can't  come  to  any  great  harm, 
unless  it's  true  that  the  world  is  round.  If 
that's  so,  of  course  your  ship  will  fall  off  when 
you  get  over  on  the  other  side  of  it." 

"  But  Europe  isn't  on  the  other  side  of  it 
Aunt  Polly,  and  besides  I've  been  there  twice 

287 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

already  you  know,  and  I  didn't  fall  off  the 
earth  either  time." 

"  No,  you  were  lucky,  and  maybe  you'll  be 
lucky  this  time.  Anyhow  you  have  all  made  up 
your  minds  and  I'll  interpose  no  objections." 

It  was  by  no  means  so  easy  to  win  Doro- 
thy's consent  to  the  proposed  journey. 

"  I  ought  not  to  run  away  from  my  duty," 
she  said,  in  objection  to  a  proposal  which 
opened  otherwise  delightful  prospects  to  her 
mind- 

"  But  it's  your  duty  to  go,  child,"  Edmonia 
answered.  "  You  need  the  trip  and  all  the  edu- 
cation it  will  give  you.  What  is  there  for  you 
to  do  here,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Why,  Cousin  Arthur  might  need  me !  You 
know  he  never  tells  lies,  and  he  says  I  have 
really  helped  him  to  save  people's  lives  in  this 
fever  time." 

"  But  that  is  all  over  now  and  it  won't  occur 
again.  Arthur  has  taken  care  of  that  by  burn- 
ing the  old  quarters  and  building  new  ones  in 
a  wholesome  place.  By  the  way,  Dorothy, 
you'll  be  glad  to  know  that  his  example  is 
already  having  its  influence.  Brother  has  de- 
cided to  build  new  quarters  for  our  servants  at 
a  spot  which  Arthur  has  selected  as  the  best 
one  for  the  purpose  on  the  plantation.     Any- 

288 


/tUNT  POLLTS  VIEW 

how  there'll  be  no  further  fever  outbreaks  at 
Wyanoke  or  at  Pocahontas,  now  that  Arthur 
is  master  there  also." 

"  But  he  might  need  me  in  other  ways,"  an- 
swered the  persistently  reluctant  Dorothy. 
"  And  besides  he  is  teaching  me  chemistry  and 
other  scientific  things  that  will  make  me  useful 
in  life.     No,  I  can't  go  away  now." 

"  But,  you  absurd  child,"  answered  Ed- 
monia,  "  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  to  learn 
all  that  when  you  come  back.,  You  are  ridicu- 
lously young  yet.  You  won't  be  seventeen  till 
March,  and  you  know  a  great  deal  more  about 
science  than  Arthur  did  at  your  age.  Besides 
this  is  his  plan  for  you,  not  mine.  He  wants 
you  to  learn  the  things  this  trip  will  teach  you, 
a  great  deal  more  than  he  wants  you  to  learn 
chemistry  and  that  sort  of  thing.  He  knows 
what  you  need  in  the  way  of  education,  and  it 
is  at  his  suggestion  that  I'm  going  to  take  you 
North  and  to  Europe.  He  appreciates  your 
abilities  as  you  never  will,  and  it  is  his  earnest 
wish  that  you  shall  make  this  trip  as  a  part  of 
your  education." 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Dorothy.  "  I'll  ask 
him  if  he  wants  me  to  go,  and  if  he  says  yes, 
I'll  go.  Of  course  it  will  be  delightful  to  see 
great  cities  and  the  ocean  and  Pompeii  and 

289 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

pictures  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But  a  woman 
mustn't  think  of  enjoyment  alone.  That's  the 
way  women  become  bad.  My  father  often 
told  me  so,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  bad." 

"You  never  will,  Dorothy,  dear.  You 
couldn't  become  bad  if  you  wanted  to.  And  as 
for  Arthur,  I  assure  you  it  was  he  who  planned 
this  journey  for  you  and  asked  me  to  take  you 
on  it.  Don't  you  think  he  knows  what  is  best 
for  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,  he  does !  I  never  ques- 
tioned that.  But  maybe  he  isn't  just  thinking 
of  what  is  best  for  me.  Maybe  he  is  only 
thinking  of  what  would  give  me  pleasure. 
Anyhow  I'll  ask  him  and  make  sure.  He  won't 
deceive  me.  And  he  couldn't  if  he  tried.  I 
always  know  when  he's  making  believe  and 
when  I  get  angry  with  him  for  pretending  he 
always  quits  it  and  tells  me  the  truth." 

"  Then  you'll  go  if  Arthur  tells  you  he  really 
wants  you  to  go,  and  really  thinks  it  best  for 
you  tc  go?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  will !  I'll  do  anything  and 
everything  he  wants  me  to  do,  now  and  always. 
He's  the  best  man  in  the  world,  and  the  great- 
est, Edmonia.  Don't  you  believe  that?  If 
you  don't  I  shall  quit  loving  you." 

"  Oh,  you  may  safely  go  on  loving  me  then/' 

290 


AUNT  POLLrs  riEJF 

answered  Edmonia  bowing  her  head  very  low 
to  inspect  something  minute  in  the  fancy  work 
she  had  in  her  lap,  and  in  that  way  hiding  her 
flushed  face  for  the  moment.  "  I  think  all  the 
good  things  about  Arthur  that  you  do,  Doro- 
thy. As  I  know  what  his  answer  to  your  ques- 
tions will  be,  we'll  order  the  seamstresses  to 
begin  work  tomorrow  morning.  I'll  have 
everything  made  at  Branton,  so  you  are  to 
come  over  there  soon  in  the  morning.'' 

The  catechising  of  Arthur  yielded  the  results 
that  Edmonia  had  anticipated. 

*'  Yes,  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "  I  am  really  very 
anxious  that  you  shall  make  this  trip.  It  will 
give  you  more  of  enjoyment  than  you  can  pos- 
sibly anticipate,  but  it  will  do  something  much 
better  than  that.  It  will  repair  certain  defects 
in  your  education,  which  have  been  stupidly 
provided  for  by  people  who  did  not  appreciate 
your  wonderful  gifts  and  your  remarkable 
character.  For  Dorothy,  dear,  though  you  do 
not  know  it,  you  are  a  person  of  really  excep- 
tional gifts  both  of  mind  and  character — gifts 
that  ought  to  be  cultivated,  but  which  have  been 
suppressed  instead.  You  do  not  know  it,  and 
perhaps  you  won't  quite  believe  it,  but  you 
have  capacities  such  as  no  other  woman  in  this 
community  can  even  pretend  to  possess.     You 

291 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

are  very  greatly  the  superior  of  any  woman  you 
ever  saw." 

"  Oh,  not  of  Edmonia !  "  the  girl  quickly  re- 
plied. 

"  Yes — even  of  Edmonia,"  he  answered. 

The  girl's  face  was  hotly  flushed.  She  did 
not  know  why,  but  such  praise,  so  sincerely 
given,  and  coming  from  the  man  whom  she  re- 
garded as  "  the  best  man  in  the  world,  and  the 
greatest,"  was  gladsome  to  her  soul.  Her  na- 
tive modesty  forbade  her  to  believe  it,  quite, 
'*'  but,"  she  argued  with  herself,  "  of  course  he 
knows  better  than  I  do,  better  than  anybody 
else  ever  can.  And,  of  course,  I  must  do  all 
I  can  to  improve  myself  in  order  that  I  may 
satisfy  his  expectations  of  me.  I'll  ask  him  all 
about  that  before  I  leave." 

And  she  did. 

"  Cousin  Arthur,"  she  said  one  evening  as 
they  two  sat  with  Aunt  Polly  before  a  crackling 
fire  in  "  the  chamber  " — let  the  author  suspend 
that  sentence  in  mid  air  while  he  explains. 

The  chamber,  in  an  old  plantation  house, 
was  that  room  on  the  ground  floor  in  which  the 
master  of  the  plantation,  whether  married  or 
unmarried,  slept.  It  was  the  family  room  al- 
ways. Into  it  came  those  guests  whose  inti- 
macy was  sufficient  to  warrant  intrusion  upon 

292 


AUNT  POLLT'S  VIEW 

the  penetralia.  The  others  were  entertained 
in  the  drawing  room.  The  word  chamber  was 
pronounced  "chawmber,"  just  as  the  word 
"aunt"  was  properly  pronounced  "awnt." 
The  chamber  had  a  bed  in  it  and  a  bureau.  In 
a  closet  big  enough  for  a  modern  bedroom 
there  was  a  dressing  case  with  its  fit  appurte- 
nances. In  the  chamber  there  was  a  lounge 
that  tempted  to  afternoon  siestas,  and  there 
were  great  oaken  arm  chairs  whose  skilful  fash- 
ioning for  comfort  rendered  cushions  an  im- 
pertinence. In  the  chamber  was  always  the 
broadest  and  most  cavernous  of  fire  places  and 
the  most  satisfactory  of  fires  when  the  weather 
was  such  as  to  render  artificial  heating  desir- 
able. In  the  chamber  was  usually  a  carpet 
softly  cushioned  beneath,  itself  and  its  cushions 
being  subject  to  a  daily  flagellation  out-of- 
doors  in  the  "  soon  "  hours  of  morning  in  order 
that  they  might  be  relaid  before  the  breakfast- 
time.  All  other  rooms  in  the  house  were  apt 
to  be  carpetless,  their  immaculate  white  ash 
floors  undergoing  a  daily  polishing  with  pine 
needles  and  rubbing  brushes.  The  chamber 
alone  was  carpeted  in  most  houses.  Why  this 
distinction  the  author  does  not  undertake  to 
say.  He  merely  records  a  fact  which  was  well- 
nigh  universal  in  the  great  plantation  houses. 

293 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

So  much  for  the  chamber.  Let  us  return  to 
the  sentence  it  interrupted. 

"  Cousin  Arthur,"  Dorothy  said,  "  I  wish 
you  would  mark  out  a  course  of  study  for  me 
to  pursue  during  this  journey,  so  that  I  may 
get  out  of  it  all  the  good  I  can." 

Arthur  picked  up  a  dry  sponge  and  dropped 
it  into  a  basin  of  water. 

"Look,  Dorothy,"  he  said.  "That  is  the 
only  course  I  shall  mark  out  for  you." 

"It  is  very  dull  of  me,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
girl,  "  but  I  really  don't  understand." 

"  Why,  I  didn't  tell  the  sponge  what  to  ab- 
sorb, and  yet  as  you  see  it  has  drunk  up  all  the 
water  it  can  hold.  It  is  just  so  with  you  and 
your  journey.  You  need  no  instruction  as  to 
what  you  shall  learn  by  travel  or  by  mingling 
in  the  social  life  of  great  cities.  You  are  like 
that  sponge.  You  will  absorb  all  that  you  need 
of  instruction,  when  once  you  are  cast  into 
the  water  of  life.  You  have  very  superior 
gifts  of  observation.  There  is  no  fear  that  you 
will  fail  to  get  all  that  is  best  out  of  travel  and 
society.  It  is  only  the  stupid  people  who  need 
be  told  what  they  should  see  and  what  they 
should  think  about  it,  and  the  stupid  people 
would  much  better  stay  at  home." 

294 


XXVI 

AUNT  POLLY'S  ADVICE 

/F  Aunt  Polly  had  entertained  any  real 
desire  to  forbid  the  expedition  planned 
for  Dorothy,  the  prompt  interference 
of  Madison  Peyton  in  that  behalf  would  have 
dissipated  it. 

No  sooner  had  Peyton  learned  of  the  con- 
templated journey  than  he  bustled  over  to  Wy- 
anoke  to  see  Aunt  Polly  regarding  it. 

It  is  not  a  comfortable  thing  to  visit  a  man 
with  whom  one  has  recently  quarrelled  and  to 
whom  one  has  had  to  send  a  letter  of  apology. 
Even  Peyton,  thick-skinned  and  self-assured 
as  he  was,  would  probably  have  hesitated  to 
make  himself  a  guest  at  Wyanoke  at  this  time 
but  for  the  happy  chance  that  Arthur  was  ab- 
sent in  Richmond  for  a  few  days. 

Seizing  upon  the  opportunity  thus  afforded, 
Peyton  promptly  visited  Aunt  Polly  to  enter  a 
very  earnest  and  insistent  protest.  He  was 
genuinely  alarmed.  He  realized  Dorothy's 
moral  and  intellectual  superiority  to  his  son. 

295 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

He  was  shrewd  enough  to  foresee  that  travel 
and  a  year's  association  with  men  and  women 
of  attractive  culture  and  refined  intellectual 
lives  would,  of  necessity,  increase  this  disparity 
and  perhaps — nay,  almost  certainly — make  Jef- 
ferson Peyton  seem  a  distinctly  unworthy  and 
inferior  person  in  Dorothy's  eyes.  He  realized 
that  the  arrangement  made  some  years  before 
between  himself  and  Dr.  South,  was  not  bind- 
ing upon  Dorothy,  except  in  so  far  as  it  might 
appeal  to  her  conscience  and  to  her  loyalty  to 
her  father's  memory  when  the  time  should  be 
ripe  to  reveal  it  to  her.  For  as  yet  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  matter. 

She  had  liked  young  Peyton  when  he  and 
she  were  children  together.  His  abounding 
good  nature  had  made  him  an  agreeable  play- 
mate. But  as  they  had  grown  up,  the  sym- 
pathy between  them  had  steadily  decreased. 
The  good  nature  which  had  made  him  agree- 
able as  a  playmate,  had  become  a  distinct  weak- 
ness of  character  as  he  had  matured.  He  lacked 
fixity  of  purpose,  industry  and  even  conscience 
— while  Dorothy,  born  with  these  attributes, 
had  strengthened  them  by  every  act  and 
thought  of  her  life. 

The  young  man  had  courage  enough  to 
speak  the  truth  fearlessly  on  all  occasions  that 

296 


4UNT  POLLTS  ADVICE 

strongly  called  for  truth  and  courage,  but 
Dorothy  had  discovered  that  in  minor  matters 
he  was  untruthful.  To  her  integrity  of  mind 
it  was  shocking  that  a  young  man  should  make 
false  pretences,  as  he  had  done  when  they  had 
talked  of  literature  and  the  like.  She  could 
not  understand  a  false  pretence,  and  she  had  no 
toleration  for  the  weakness  that  indulges  in  it. 

Moreover  in  intellectual  matters,  Dorothy 
had  completely  outgrown  her  former  playmate. 
The  bright  boy,  whom  Dorothy's  father  had 
chosen  as  one  destined  to  be  a  fit  life  com- 
panion for  her,  had  remained  a  bright  boy. 
And  that  which  astonishes  us  as  brilliancy  in 
a  child  iceases  to  impress  us  as  the  child  grows 
into  manhood,  if  the  promise  of  it  is  not  ful- 
filled by  growth.  A  bright  boy,  ten  or  twelve 
years  old,  is  a  very  pleasant  person  to  contem- 
plate; but  a  youth  who  remains  nothing  more 
than  a  bright  boy  as  he  grows  into  manhood, 
is  distinctly  disappointing  and  depressing. 

It  is  to  be  said  to  the  credit  of  Madison  Pey- 
ton that  he  had  done  all  that  he  could — or 
rather  all  that  he  knew  how — to  promote  the 
intellectual  development  of  this  his  first  born 
son.  He  had  lavished  money  upon  tutors  for 
him,  when  he  ought  instead  to  have  sent  him 
to  some  school  whose  all  dominating  democ- 

297 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

racy  would  have  compelled  the  boy  to  work 
for  his  standing  and  to  realize  the  value  of  per- 
sonal endeavor.  In  brief  Madison  Peyton  had 
made  that  mistake  which  the  much  richer  men 
of  our  day  so  often  make.  He  had  tried  to 
provide  for  his  son  a  royal  road  to  learning, 
only  to  find  that  the  pleasures  of  the  roadside 
had  won  the  wayfarer  away  from  the  objects 
of  his  journey. 

'Madison  Peyton  now  realized  all  this.  He 
understood  how  little  profit  his  son  had  got  out 
of  the  very  expensive  education  provided  for 
him,  how  completely  he  had  failed  to  acquire 
intellectual  tastes,  and  in  a  dimly  subconscious 
way,  he  understood  how  ill  equipped  the  young 
man  was  to  win  the  love  of  such  a  gfirl  as 
Dorothy,  or  to  make  her  happy  as  his  wife. 
And  he  realized  also  that  if  travel  and  culture 
and  a  larger  thinking  should  weaken  in 
Dorothy's  mind — as  it  easily  might — that  sense 
of  obligation  to  fulfil  her  father's  desires,  on 
which  mainly  he  had  relied  for  the  carrying 
out  of  the  program  of  marriage  between  these 
two,  with  Pocahontas  plantation  as  an  inci- 
dental advantage,  the  youth  must  win  Dorothy 
by  a  worthiness  of  her  love,  or  lose  her  for 
lack  of  it. 

The  worthiness  in  his  son  was  obviously 

298 


AUNT  POLLT'S  ADVICE 

wanting.  There  remained  only  Dorothy's 
overweening  loyalty  to  her  father's  memory 
and  will  as  a  reliance  for  the  accomplishment 
of  Madison  Peyton's  desires.  It  was  to  prevent 
the  weakening  of  that  loyalty  that  he  appealed 
to  Aunt  Polly  to  forbid  the  travel  plan. 

Aunt  Polly  from  the  first  refused.  **  Dorothy 
is  a  wonderful  girl,"  she  said,  "and  she  has 
wonderful  gifts.  I  shall  certainly  not  stand 
in  the  way  of  their  development." 

"But  let  me  remind  you,  Cousin  Polly,'* 
answered  Peyton,  "that  Dorothy's  life  is 
marked  out  for  her.  Don't  you  think  it  would 
be  a  distinct  injustice  to  her  to  unfit  her  as  this 
trip  cannot  fail  to  do,  for  the  life  that  she  must 
lead?  Will  not  that  tend  to  render  her  un- 
happy.?" 

"  Happiness  is  not  a  matter  of  circum- 
stance, Madison.  It  is  a  matter  of  character. 
But  that  isn't  what  I  meant  to  say.  You  want 
me  to  keep  Dorothy  here  in  order  that  she  may 
not  grow,  or  develop,  or  whatever  else  you 
choose  to  call  it.  You  want  to  keep  her  as 
ignorant  as  you  can,  simply  because  you  know 
she  is  already  the  superior  of  the  young  man 
whom  you  and  Dr.  South,  in  your  ignorant 
assumption  of  the  attributes  gf  Divine  Provi- 
dence, have  selected  to  be  her  husband.    You 

299 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

are  afraid  that  she  will  outgrow  him.  Isn't 
that  what  you  mean,  Madison  ? " 

"Well,  yes,  in  a  way.  You  put  it  very 
baldly,  but " 

"But  that's  the  truth,  isn't  it?  That's  what 
you're  afraid  of .?  " 

"Well,  the  fact  is  I  don't  believe  in  edu- 
cating girls  above  their  station  in  life." 

"  How  can  anything  be  above  Dorothy's 
station,  Madison  .!*  She  is  the  daughter  and 
sole  heir  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  best  families 
in  Virginia.  I  have  never  heard  of  anything 
higher  than  that." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  But  that  isn't  what  I  mean. 
You  see  Dorothy  has  been  permitted  to  read  a 
lot  of  books  that  young  women  don't  usually 
read,  and  study  a  lot  of  subjects  that  young 
women  don't  usually  study.  She  has  got  her 
head  full  of  notions,  and  this  trip  will  make  the 
matter  worse.  I  think  women  should  look  up 
to  their  husbands  and  not  down  upon  them,  and 
how  can  Dorothy '* 

"  How  would  it  do,  Madison,  for  the  young 
men  to  make  an  effort  on  their  own  account, 
to  improve  their  minds  and  build  up  their  char- 
acters so  that  their  wives  might  look  up  to 
them  without  an  effort }  There  are  some  men 
to  whom  the  most  highly  cultivated  women  can 

300 


AUNT  POLLrS  ADVICE 

.bok  up  in  real  respect,  and  it  is  quite  naturai 
that  the  best  of  the  young  women  should 
choose  these  for  their  husbands.  Many  young 
men  refuse  to  make  themselves  worthy  in  that 
way,  or  fail  in  such  efforts  as  they  may  make 
to  accomplish  it.  If  I  understand  you  properly, 
you  would  forbid  the  girls  to  cultivate  what  is 
best  in  them  lest  they  grow  superior  to  their 
coming  husbands.'* 

"That's  it,  Cousin  Polly.  The  happy 
women  are  those  who  feel  the  superiority  of 
their  husbands  and  find  pleasure  in  bowing  to 
it." 

"  I  thought  that  was  your  idea.  It  is  simply 
abominable.  It  makes  no  more  of  a  woman 
than  of  a  heifer  or  a  filly.  It  regards  her  as 
nothing  more  or  better  than  a  convenience.  I'll 
have  nothing  to  do  with  such  a  doctrine. 
Dorothy  South  is  a  girl  of  unusual  character, 
and  unusual  mind,  so  far  as  I  can  judge.  She 
has  naturally  done  all  she  could  to  cultivate 
what  is  best  in  herself,  and,  so  far  as  I  can 
control  the  matter  she  shall  go  on  doing  so,  as 
every  woman  and  every  man  ought  to  do. 
When  she  has  made  the  best  she  can  of  herself, 
she  may  perhaps  meet  some  man  worthy  of  her, 
some  man  fit  to  be  her  companion  in  life.  If 
she  does,  she'll  probably  marry  him.      If   she 

301 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

meets  none  such  she  can  remain  single.  That 
isn't  at  all  the  worst  thing  that  can  happen  to  a 
woman.  It  is  a  hideous  thing  to  marry  a  girl 
to  her  inferior.  You  have  yourself  suggested 
that  such  a  marriage  can  only  mean  wretched- 
ness to  both.  And  your  plan  of  avoiding  such 
marriages  is  to  keep  the  girls  inferior  by  deny- 
ing them  the  privilege  of  self-cultivation.  I 
tell  you  it  is  an  abominable  plan.  It's  Turkish, 
and  the  only  right  way  to  carry  it  out  is  to 
shut  women  up  in  harems  and  forbid  them 
to  learn  how  to  read.  For  if  a  woman  or  a 
man  of  brains  learns  that  much,  the  rest  cannot 
be  prevented.  So  you  may  make  up  your  mind 
that  Dorothy  is  going  to  make  this  trip.  I've 
already  consented  to  it,  and  the  more  I  think 
about  it,  the  more  I  am  in  favor  of  it.  My 
only  fear  is  that  she  may  fall  off  the  earth  when 
she  gets  to  the  other  side,  and  I  reckon  that  will 
not  happen,  for  both  Arthur  and  Edmonia  as- 
sure me  they  didn't  fall  off  when  they  were 
over  there." 

Peyton  saw  the  necessity  of  making  some 
stronger  appeal  to  Aunt  Polly,  than  any  he  had 
yet  put  forward.  So  he  addressed  himself  to 
her  conscience  and  her  exalted  sense  of  honor. 

"  Doubtless  you  are  right,  Cousin  Polly,'* 
he  said  placatively,  "  at  least  as  to  the  general 

302 


AUNT  POLLrS  ADVICE 

principle.  But,  as  you  clearly  understand,  this 
is  a  peculiar  case.  You  see  Dorothy  must 
marry  Jefferson  in  any  event.  Don't  you  think 
it  would  be  very  unfair  and  even  cruel  to  her, 
to  let  her  unfit  herself  for  happiness  in  the  only 
marriage  she  is  permitted  to  make  ?  Will  it  not 
be  cruel  to  let  her  get  her  head  full  of  notions, 
and  perhaps  even  accept  some  man's  attentions, 
and  then  find  yourself  in  honor  bound  to  show 
her  the  letter  you  hold  from  Dr.  South,  in- 
structing her  to  carry  out  his  will  ?  You  know 
she  will  obey  her  dead  father  and  marry  Jeffer- 
son. Isn't  it  clearly  your  duty  to  shield  and 
guard  her  against  influences  that  cannot  fail  to 
unfit  her  for  happiness  in  the  marriage  she 
must  make?" 

"  I  am  sole  judge  of  that  matter,  Madison. 
I  am  the  guardian  of  Dorothy's  person  during 
her  nonage — four  years  longer.  By  the  terms 
of  Dr.  South's  will  she  must  not  marry  until 
she  is  twenty  one,  except  with  my  consent. 
With  my  consent  she  may  marry  at  any  time. 
As  to  the  letter  you  speak  of,  you  have  never 
had  the  privilege  of  reading  it,  and  I  do  not 
intend  to  show  it  to  you.  It  is  less  peremptory, 
perhaps  than  you  think.  It  does  not  command 
Dorothy  to  marry  your  son.  It  only  recom- 
mends such  a  marriage  to  her  as  a  safe  and 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

prudent  one,  securing  to  her  the  advantages 
of  marriage  into  as  good  a  family  as  her  own. 
But  there  are  other  families  than  yours  as  good 
as  her  own,  and  I  may  see  fit  not  to  show 
Dorothy  her  father's  letter  at  all.  I  am  not 
bound  to  let  her  read  it,  by  any  clause  in  his 
will,  or  by  any  promise  to  him,  or  even  by  any 
injunction  from  him.  I  am  left  sole  judge  as 
to  that.  If  I  had  not  been  so  left  free  to  use 
my  own  discretion  I  should  never  have  accepted 
the  responsibility  of  the  girl's  guardianship." 

"  You  astonish  me !  "  exclaimed  Peyton.  "  I 
had  supposed  this  matter  settled  beyond  recall. 
I  had  trusted  Dr.  South's  honor " 

"  Stop,  Madison !  "  interposed  Aunt  Polly. 
"If  you  say  one  word  in  question  of  Dr. 
South's  honor  and  integrity,  I  will  burn  that 
letter  now,  and  never,  so  long  as  I  live  mention 
its  existence." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean—" 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  say  a  good  many  things 
you  do  not  mean  today,  Madison.  As  for  me, 
I  am  saying  only  what  I  mean,  and  perhaps  not 
quite  all  of  that.  Let  me  end  the  whole  matter 
by  telling  you  this :  I  am  going  to  let  Dorothy 
make  this  trip.  I  am  going  to  give  her  every 
chance  I  can  to  cultivate  herself  into  a  perfect 
womanhood — many  chances  that  I  longed  for 


D 


OROTHY 
SOUTH. 


AUNT  POLLTS  ADVICE 

in  my  own  girlhood,  but  could  not  command 
I  may  or  may  not  some  day  show  her  Dr. 
South's  letter..  That  shall  be  as  my  judgment 
dictates.  I  shall  not  consent  now  or  hereafter, 
while  my  authority  or  influence  lasts,  to  Dor- 
othy's marriage  to  anybody  except  some  man 
of  her  own  choosing,  who  shall  seem  to  me 
fit  to  make  her  happy.  If  you  want  Jefferson 
to  marry  her,  I  notify  you  now  that  he  must 
fairly  win  her.  And  my  advice  to  you  is  very 
earnest  that  he  set  to  work  at  once  to  render 
himself  worthy  of  her;  to  repair  his  character; 
to  cultivate  himself,  if  he  can,  up  to  her  moral 
and  intellectual  level;  to  make  of  himself  a  man 
to  whom  she  can  look  up,  as  you  say,  and  not 
down.    There,  that  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

Madison  Peyton  saw  this  to  be  good  advice,' 
and  he  decided  to  act  upon  it.  But,  as  so  often 
happens  with  good  advice,  he  "  took  it  wrong 
end  first,"  in  the  phrase  of  that  time  and 
country.  He  decided  that  his  son  should  also 
go  north  and  to  Europe,  following  the  party 
to  which  Dorothy  belonged  as  closely  as  pos- 
sible, seeing  as  much  as  he  could  of  her,  and 
paying  court  to  her  upon  every  opportunity. 


305 


XXVII 

PUNA'S  EXALTATION 

/T  was  the  middle  of  January,  i860,  when 
Dorothy   bade   Arthur   good-by   and 
went  away  upon  her  mission  of  enjoy- 
ment and  education. 

It  is  not  easy  for  us  now  to  picture  to  our- 
selves what  travel  in  this  country  was  in  that 
year  which  seems  to  the  older  ones  among  us 
so  recent.  In  i860  there  was  not  such  a  thing 
as  a  sleeping  car  in  all  the  world.  The  nearest 
-approach  to  that  necessity  of  modern  life  which 
then  existed,  was  a  car  with  high  backed  seats, 
which  was  used  on  a  few  of  the  longer  lines 
of  railroad.  For  another  thing  there  were  no 
such  things  in  existence  as  through  trains. 
Every  railroad  in  the  country  was  an  inde- 
pendent line,  whose  trains  ran  only  between 
its  own  termini.  The  traveller  must  "  change 
cars  "at  every  terminus,  and  usually  the  process 
involved  a  delay  of  several  hours  and  a  long 
omnibus  ride — ^perhaps  at  midnight — through 
the  streets  of  some  city  which  had  thriftily  pro- 

306 


DIANA'S  EXALTATION 

vided  that  its  several  railroads  should  place 
their  stations  as  far  apart  as  possible  in  order 
that  their  passengers  might  "  leave  money  in 
the  town."  The  passenger  from  a  south  side 
county  of  Virginia  intending  to  go  to  New 
York,  for  example,  must  take  a  train  to  Rich- 
mond; thence  after  crossing  the  town  in  an 
omnibus  and  waiting  for  an  hour  or  two,  take 
another  train  to  Acquia  Creek,  near  Fredericks- 
burg; there  transfer  to  a  steamboat  for  Wash- 
ington; there  cross  town  in  an  omnibus,  and, 
after  another  long  wait,  take  a  train  for  the 
Relay  House;  there  wait  four  hours  and  then 
change  cars  for  Baltimore,  nine  miles  away; 
then  take  another  omnibus  ride  to  another  sta- 
tion; thence  a  train  to  Havre  de  Grace,  where 
he  must  cross  a  river  on  a  ferry  boat ;  thence  by 
another  train  to  Philadelphia,  where,  after  still 
another  omnibus  transfer  and  another  delay, 
one  had  a  choice  of  routes  to  New  York,  the 
preferred  one  being  by  way  of  Camden  and 
Amboy,  and  thence  up  the  bay  twenty  miles  or 
so,  to  the  battery  in  New  York.  There  was 
no  such  thing  as  a  dining  car,  a  buffet  car  or  a 
drawing  room  car  in  all  the  land.  There  were 
none  but  hand  brakes  on  the  trains,  and  the 
cars  were  held  together  by  loose  coupling  links. 
The  rails  were  not  fastened  together  at  theif 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

badly  laminated  ends,  and  it  was  the  fashion 
to  call  trains  that  reached  a  maximum  speed  of 
twenty  miles  an  hour,  "  lightning  expresses," 
and  to  stop  them  at  every  little  wayside  station. 
The  engines  were  fed  upon  wood,  and  it  was 
a  common  thing  for  trains  to  stop  their  intoler- 
able jolting  for  full  twenty  minutes  to  take 
fresh  supplies  of  wood  and  water. 

There  was  immeasurably  more  of  weariness 
then,  in  a  journey  from  Richmond  or  Cincin- 
nati or  Buffalo  to  New  York,  than  would  be 
tolerated  now  in  a  trip  across  the  continent. 
As  a  consequence  few  people  travelled  except 
for  short  distances  and  a  journey  which  we 
now  think  nothing  of  making  comfortably  in 
a  single  night,  was  then  a  matter  of  grave  con- 
sequence, to  be  undertaken  only  after  much 
deliberation  and  with  much  of  preparation. 
New  York  seemed  more  distant  to  the  dweller 
in  the  West  or  South  than  Hong  Kong  and 
Yokohama  do  in  our  time,  and  the  number  of 
people  who  had  journeyed  beyond  the  borders 
of  our  own  country  was  so  small  that  those 
who  had  done  so  were  regarded  as  persons  of 
interestingly  adventurous  experience., 

'Quite  necessarily  all  parts  of  the  country 
were  markedly  provincial  in  speech,  manner, 
habits  and  even  in  dress.    New  England  had  a 

308 


DIANA'S  EXALTATION 

nasal  dialect  of  its  own,  so  firmly  rooted  in  use 
that  it  has  required  two  or  three  generations  of 
exacting  Yankee  school  marms  to  eradicate  it 
from  the  speech  even  of  the  educated  class. 
New  York  state  had  another,  and  the  South- 
erner was  known  everywhere  by  a  speech  which 
*' bewrayed"  him. 

And  as  it  was  with  speech,  so  also  was  it 
with  manners,  customs,  ideas.  Prejudice  was 
everywhere  rampant,  opinion  intolerant,  and 
usage  merciless  in  its  narrow  illiberality.  Only 
in  what  was  then  the  West — the  region  between 
the  Alleghenies  and  the  Mississippi — was  there 
anything  of  cosmopolitan  liberality  and  toler- 
ance. They  were  found  in  that  region  because 
the  population  of  the  West  had  been  drawn 
from  all  parts  of  the  country.  Attrition  of 
mind  with  mind,  and  the  mingling  of  men  of 
various  origin  had  there  in  a  large  degree  worn 
off  the  angles  of  provincial  prejudice  and  bred 
a  liberality  of  mind  elsewhere  uncommon  in 
our  country. 

Edmonia  and  Dorothy  were  to  make  their 
formidable  journey  to  New  York  in  easy 
stages.  They  remained  for  several  days  with 
friends  in  Richmond,  while  completing  those 
preliminary  preparations  which  were  necessary 
before    setting    out    for    the   national   capital. 

309 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

They  were  to  stay  in  Washington  for  a  fort- 
night, in  Baltimore  for  three  weeks,  in  Phila- 
delphia for  a  week  or  two,  and  in  New  York 
for  nearly  two  months  before  sailing  for  Europe 
in  May. 

The  time  was  a  very  troubled  one,  on  the 
subject  of  slavery.  Not  only  was  it  true  that 
if  the  owner  of  a  slave  took  the  negro  with 
him  into  any  one  of  the  free  states  he  by  that 
act  legally  set  him  free,  but  it  was  also  true  that 
the  most  devoted  and  loyal  servant  thus  taken 
from  the  South  into  a  Northern  state  was  sub- 
jected to  every  form  of  persuasive  solicitation 
to  claim  and  assert  his  freedom.  It  was  never- 
theless the  custom  of  Southern  men,  and  still 
more  of  Southern  women,  to  take  with  them 
on  their  travels  one  or  more  of  their  personal 
servants,  trusting  to  their  loyalty  alone  for 
continued  allegiance.  For  the  attitude  of  such 
personal  servants  in  Virginia  at  that  time  was 
rather  that  of  proud  and  voluntary  allegiance 
to  loved  masters  and  mistresses  who  belonged 
to  them  as  a  cherished  possession,  than  that  of 
men  and  women  held  in  unwilling  bondage. 

Accordingly  it  was  arranged  that  Edmonia's 
maid,  Dinah  —  or  Diana  as  she  had  come  to  call 
herself  since  hearing  her  mistress  read  a  "his- 

310 


DIANA'S  EXALTATION 

tory  pome  "  aloud — should  accompany  the  two 
young  women  as  their  joint  servitor. 

As  soon  as  this  arrangement  was  announced 
at  Branton,  Diana  began  what  Polydore  called 
"  a  puttin'  on  of  airs."  In  plainer  phrase  she 
began  to  snub  Polydore  mercilessly,  whereas 
she  had  recently  been  so  gracious  in  her  de- 
meanor towards  him  as  to  give  him  what  he 
called  "  extinct  discouragement." 

After  it  was  settled  that  she  was  to  accompany 
"  Miss  Mony  an'  Miss  Dorothy  "  to  "  de  N9rf  " 
and  to  "  Yurrop  " — as  she  wrote  to  all  her 
friends  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  know 
how  to  *^  read  writinV'  there  was,  as  Polydore 
declared,  "  no  livin'  in  de  house  wid  her."  She 
sailed  about  the  place  like  a  frigate,  delivering 
her  shots  to  the  right  and  left — most  of  them 
aimed  at  Polydore,  with  casual  and  contemptu- 
ous attention,  now  and  then,  to  the  other  house 
servants. 

"  I  *clar"  to  gracious,"  said  Elsie,  one  of 
thd  housemaids,  "  ef  Diana  ain't  a  puttin'  on 
of  jes'  as  many  airs  as>  ef  she'd  been  all  over 
already,  an'  she  ain't  never  been  out  of  dis 
county  yit." 

"  Wonder  ef  she'll  look  at  folks  when  she 
gits  back,''  said  Fred,  the  cadet  of  the  dining 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

room,  who  was  being  trained  under  Polydore's 
tutelage  to  keep  his  nails  clean  and  to  offer 
dishes  to  guests  at  their  left  hands. 

"  Don*  you  be  in  too  big  a  hurry  to  fin'  out 
dat,  you  nigga,"  rejoined  Poly  dor  e,  the  loyalty 
of  whose  love  for  Diana  would  brook  no  criti- 
cism of  her  on  the  part  of  an  underling. 
"  You'se  got  enough  to  attend  to  in  gittin*  yer 
manners  into  shape.  Diana's  a  superior  pus- 
son,  an'  you  ain't  got  no  'casion  to  criticise  her. 
You  jes'  take  what  yer  gits  an'  be  thankful  like 
Lazarus  wuz  when  de  rich  man  dropped  water 
outer  his  hand  on  his  tongue." 

Polydore's  biblical  erudition  seems  to  have 
been  a  trifle  at  fault  at  this  point.  But  at  any 
rate  his  simile  had  its  intended  effect  upon  the 
young  darkey,  who,  slipping  a  surreptitious 
beaten  biscuit  into  his  pocket,  retreated  to  the 
distant  kitchen  to  devour  it. 

At  that  moment  Diana  entered  the  dining 
room  with  the  air  of  a  Duchess,  and,  with 
unwonted  sweetness,  said: 

"  Please,  Polydore,  bring  me  de  tea  things. 
De  ladies  is  faint." 

Polydore,  anxious  that  Diana's  gentle  mood 
should  endure,  made  all  haste  to  bring  what 
she  desired.  He  made  too  much  haste,  un- 
luckily, for  in  his  hurry  he  managed  to  spill 

312 


VIANA'S  EXALTATION 

a  little  hot  water  from  a  pitcher  he  was  carry- 
ing on  a  tray,  and  some  drops  of  it  fell  upon 
the  sleeve  of  Diana^s  daintily  laundered  cam- 
bric gown. 

The  stately  bronze  colored  namesake  of  the 
ancient  goddess  rose  in  offended  dignity,  and 
looked  long  at  the  offender  before  addressing 
him.     Then  she  witheringly  put  the  question : 

"  Whar's  your  manners  dis  mawnin',  Poly- 
dore  ?  Jes'  spose  I  was  Miss  Mony  now ;  would 
you  go  sloppin'  things  over  her  dat  way  ?  " 

Even  a  worm  will  turn,  we  are  told,  and 
Polydore  was  prouder  than  a  worm.  For  once 
he  lost  his  self-control  so  far  as  to  say  in  reply : 

"  But  you  ain't  Miss  Mony,  dough  you  seems 
to  think  you  is.  Fse  tired  o'  yer  highty  tighty 
airs.  Git  de  tea  things  for  yerse'f !  "  With 
that  Polydore  left  the  dining  room,  and  Diana, 
curiously  enough,  made  no  reference  to  the  in- 
cident when  next  she  encountered  him,  but  was 
all  smiles  and  sweetness  instead. 


313 


XXVIII 

THE  ADVANCING  SHADOW 

Ik  TTO  sooner  were  Dorothy  and  Ed- 
I  \l  monia  gone  than  Arthur  turned 
JL.  V  again  to  affairs.  It  was  a  troubled 
uneasy  time  in  Virginia,  a  time  of  sore  appre- 
hension and  dread.  The  "  irrepressible  conflict " 
over  slavery  had  that  year  taken  on  new  and 
more  threatening  features  than  ever  before. 

There  was  now  a  strong  political  party  at 
the  North  the  one  important  article  of  whose 
creed  was  hostility  to  the  further  extension  of 
slavery  into  the  territories.  It  was  a  strictly 
sectional  party  in  its  composition,  having  no 
existence  anywhere  at  the  South.  It  was  in- 
fluential in  Congress,  and  in  1856  it  had 
strongly  supported  a  candidate  of  its  own  for 
president.  By  the  beginning  of  i860  its 
strength  had  been  greatly  increased  and  cir- 
cumstances rendered  probable  its  success  in 
electing  a  president  that  year,  for  the  hope- 
less division  of  the  Democratic  party,  which 
occurred  later  in  the  year,  was  already  clearly 


THE  ADVANCING  SHADOW 

foreshadowed,  an  event  which  In  fact  resulted 
in  the  nomination  of  three  rival  candidates 
against  Mr.  Lincoln  and  made  his  election  cer- 
tain in  spite  of  a  heavy  popular  majority  against 
him. 

Had  this  been  all,  Virginia  would  not  have 
been  greatly  disturbed  by  the  political  situation 
and  prospect.  But  during  the  preceding 
autumn  the  Virginians  had  been  filled  with  ap- 
prehension for  the  safety  of  their  homes  and 
families  by  John  Brown's  attempt,  at  Harper's 
Ferry,  to  create  a  negro  insurrection,  the  one 
catastrophe  always  most  dreaded  by  them.  That 
raid,  quickly  suppressed  as  it  was,  wrought  a 
revolution  in  Virginian  feeling  and  sentiment. 
The  Virginians  argued  from  it,  and  from  the 
approval  given  to  it  in  some  parts  of  the  North, 
that*  Northern  sentiment  was  rapidly  ripening 
into  readiness  for  any  measures,  however  vio- 
lent they  might  be,  for  the  extinction  of  slavery 
and  the  destruction  of  the  autonomy  of  the 
Southern  States. 

They  found  it  difficult  under  the  circum- 
stances to  believe  the  Republican  party's  dis- 
claimer of  all  purpose  or  power  to  interfere 
with  the  institution  in  the  States.  They  were 
convinced  that  only  opportunity  was  now  want- 
ing to  make  the  Southern  States  the  victims 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

of  an  aggressive  war,  with  a  servile  insurrection 
as  a  horrible  feature  of  it.  They  cherished  a 
warm  loyalty  to  that  Union  which  Virginia 
had  done  so  much  to  create,  but  they  began 
seriously  to  fear  the  time  when  there  would  be 
no  peace  or  safety  for  their  state  or  even  for 
their  wives  and  children  within  the  Union. 
They  were  filled  with  resentment,  too,  of  what 
they  regarded  as  a  wanton  and  unlawful  pur- 
pose to  interfere  with  their  private  concerns, 
and  to  force  the  country  into  disunion  and  civil 
war. 

There  were  hot  heads  among  them,  of 
course,  who  were  ready  to  welcome  such  re- 
sults ;  but  these  were  very  few.  The  great  body 
of  Virginia's  people  loved  the  Union,  and  even 
to  the  end — a  year  later — their  strongest  efforts 
were  put  forth  to  persuade  both  sides  to  policies 
of  peace. 

But  in  the  meantime  a  marked  change  came 
over  the  Virginian  mind  with  respect  to 
slavery.  Many  who  had  always  regarded  the 
institution  as  an  inherited  evil  to  be  got  rid  of 
as  soon  as  that  might  be  safely  accomplished, 
modified  or  reversed  their  view  when  called 
upon  to  stand  always  upon  the  defensive 
against  what  they  deemed  an  unjust  judgment 
of  themselves. 

316 


THE  ADVANCING  SHADOW 

Arthur  Brent  did  not  share  this  change  of 
view,  but  he  shared  in  the  feehngs  of  resent- 
ment which  had  given  it  birth.  In  common 
with  other  Virginians  he  felt  that  this  was  a 
matter  belonging  exclusively  to  the  individual 
states,  and  still  more  strongly  he  felt  that  the 
existing  political  situation  and  the  methods  of 
it  gravely  menaced  the  Union  in  ways  which 
were  exceedingly  difficult  for  Southern  men 
who  loved  the  Union  to  meet.  He  saw  with 
regret  the  great  change  that  was  coming  over 
public  and  private  sentiment  in  Virginia — sen- 
timent which  had  been  so  strongly  favorable  to 
the  peaceable  extinction  of  slavery,  that  John 
Letcher — a  lifelong  advocate  of  emancipation 
as  Virginia's  true  policy — had  been  elected 
Governor  the  year  before  upon  that  as  the  only 
issue  of  a  state  campaign. 

But  Arthur  was  still  bent  upon  carrying  out 
his  purpose  of  emancipating  himself  and,  inci- 
dentally his  slaves.  And  the  threatening  aspect 
of  political  affairs  strengthened  his  determina- 
tion at  any  rate  to  rid  both  his  own  estate  and 
Dorothy's  of  debt. 

"  When  that  is  done,  we  shall  be  safe,  no 
matter  what  happens,"  he  told  himself. 

To  that  end  he  had  already  done  much.  In 
spite  of  his  preoccupation  with  the  fever  epi- 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

demic  he  had  found  time  during  the  autumn 
to  institute  many  economies  ^  in  the  manage- 
ment of  both  plantations.  He  had  shipped  and 
sold  the  large  surplus  crops  of  apples  and  sweet 
potatoes — a  thing  wholly  unprecedented  in  that 
part  of  Virginia,  where  no  products  of  the  soil 
except  tobacco  and  wheat  were  ever  turned 
to  money  account.  He  was  laughed  at  for 
what  his  neighbors  characterized  as  "  Yankee 
farming,"  but  both  his  conscience  and  his  bank 
account  were  comforted  by  the  results.  In  the 
same  way,  having  a  large  surplus  of  com  that 
year,  he  had  fattened  nearly  double  the  usual 
number  of  hogs,  and  was  now  preparing  to  sell 
so  much  of  the  bacon  as  he  did  not  need  for 
plantation  uses.  In  these  and  other  ways  he 
managed  to  diminish  the  Wyanoke  debt  by 
more  than  a  third  and  that  of  Pocahontas  by 
nearly  one-half,  during  his  first  year  as  a 
planter. 

"  If  they  don't  quit  laughing  at  me,"  he  said 
to  Archer  Bannister  one  day,  "  Til  sell  milk 
and  butter  and  even  eggs  next  summer.  I  may 
conclude  to  do  that  anyhow.  Those  are  undig- 
nified crops,  perhaps,  but  Fm  not  sure  that  they 
could  not  be  made  more  profitable  than  wheat 
and  tobacco." 

"  Be  careful,  Arthur,"  answered  his  friend. 

318 


THE  ADVANCING  SHADOW 

"  It  isn't  safe  to  make  planting  too  profitable. 
It  is  apt  to  lead  to  unkindly  remark/* 

"  How  so?  Isn't  planting  a  business,  like 
any  other  ?  " 

"  A  business,  yes,  but  not  like  any  other.  It 
has  a  certain  dignity  to  maintain.  But  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  that.  I  was  thinking  of  Robert 
Copeland." 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  about  him,  Archer. 
What  has  he  done?  I  observe  that  everybody 
seems  to  shun  him— or  at  least  nobody  seems 
quite  willing  to  recognize  him  as  a  man  in  our 
class,  though  they  tell  me  his  family  is  fairly 
good,  and  personally  he  seems  agreeable.  No- 
body says  anything  to  his  discredit,  and  yet  I 
observe  a  general  shoulder  shrugging  whenever 
his  name  is  mentioned." 

"  He  makes  too  many  hogsheads  of  tobacco 
to  the  hand,"  answered  Archer  smiling  but 
speaking  with  emphasis  and  slowly. 

"  Is  he  cruel  to  his  negroes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  no.  He  is  always  good  natured 
with  them  and  Jcindiy  in  his  fashion,  but  he 
works  them  much  too  hard.  He  doesn't  drive 
them  particularly.  Indeed  I  never  heard  of 
his  striking  one  of  them.  But  he  has  invented 
a  system  of  money  rewards  and  the  like,  by 
which  he  keeps  them  perpetually  racing  with 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

each  other  in  their  work.  They  badly  overtax 
themselves,  and  the  community  regards  the 
matter  with  marked  disfavor.  In  the  matter 
of  family  he  isn't  in  our  class  at  all,  but  his 
father  was  much  respected.  He  was  even  a 
magistrate  for  some  years  before  his  death.  But 
the  son  has  shut  himself  out  of  all  social  posi- 
tion by  over  working  his  negroes,  and  the  fact 
that  he  does  it  in  ways  that  are  ingenious  and 
not  brutal  doesn't  alter  the  fact,  at  least  not 
greatly.  Of  course,  if  he  did  it  in  brutal  ways 
he  would  be  driven  out  of  the  county.  As  it  is 
he  is  only  shut  out  of  society.  I  was  jesting 
when  I  warned  you  of  danger  of  that  sort. 
But  if  you  are  not  careful  in  your  application 
of  *  practical '  methods  down  here,  you'll  get 
a  reputation  for  money  loving,  and  that 
wouldn't  be  pleasant." 

Arthur  stoutly  maintained  his  right  and  his 
duty  to  market  all  that  the  two  plantations 
produced  beyond  their  own  needs,  especially  so 
long  as  there  were  debts  upon  them.  Till  these 
should  be  discharged,  he  contended,  he  had  no 
moral  right  to  let  products  go  to  waste  which 
could  be  turned  into  money.  Archer  admitted 
the  justice  of  his  view,  but  laughingly  added : 

"  It  isn't  our  way,  down  here,  and  we  are  so 
conservative  that  it  is  never  quite  prudent  to 

320 


THE  ADVANCING  SHADOW 

transgress  our  traditions.  At  the  same  time  I 
wish  we  could  all  rid  our  estates  from  debt  be- 
fore the  great  trouble  comes.  For  it  is  surely 
coming  and  God  only  knows  what  the  upshot 
of  it  all  will  be.  Don't  quote  me  as  saying 
that,  please.  It  isn't  fashionable  with  us  to  be 
pessimistic,  or  to  doubt  either  the  righteousness 
or  the  ultimate  triumph  of  our  cause.  But  no- 
body can  really  foresee  the  outcome  of  our 
present  troubles,  and  whatever  it  may  be,  the 
men  who  are  out  of  debt  when  it  comes — if 
there  are  any — will  be  better  equipped  to  meet 
fate  with  a  calm  mind  than  the  rest  of  us." 


321 


XXIX 

THE   CORRESPONDENCE   OF   DOROTHY 

W  ^ROM  the  very  beginning  of  her  travels 
r^  Dorothy  revealed  herself  to  Arthur 
-^  in  rapidly  succeeding   letters    which 

were — ^at  the  first,  at  least — as  frank  as  had 
been  her  talks  with  him  during  their  long 
morning  rides  together.  If  in  the  end  her  ut- 
terance became  more  guarded,  with  a  touch  of 
reserve  in  it,  and  with  a  growing  tendency  to 
write  rather  of  other  things  than  of  her  own 
emotions,  Arthur  saw  in  the  fact  only  an  evi- 
dence of  that  increasing  maturity  of  woman- 
hood which  he  had  intended  her  to  gain.  For 
Arthur  Brent  studied  Dorothy's  letters  as  scru- 
tinizingly  as  if  they  had  been  lessons  in  biology. 
Or,  more  accurately  speaking,  he  studied  Dor- 
othy herself  in  her  letters,  in  that  way. 

From  Richmond  she  wrote  half  rejoicings, 
half  lamentations  over  the  long  separation  she 
must  endure  from  him  and  from  all  else  that 
had  hitherto  constituted  her  life.  Arthur  ob- 
served that  while  she  mentioned  as  a  trouble- 

322 


CORRESPONDENCE 

some  thing  the  necessity  of  having  still  another 
gown  made  before  leaving  for  the  North,  she 
told  him  nothing  whatever  about  the  gown 
itself. 

"  Gowns,"  he  reflected,  "  are  merely  neces- 
sary adjuncts  of  life  to  Dorothy — as  yet. 
She'll  think  of  them  differently  after  a  while." 

From  Washington  she  wrote  delightedly  of 
things  seen,  for  although  the  glory  of  the  na- 
tional capital  had  not  come  upon  it  in  i860, 
there  was  even  then  abundant  interest  there 
for  a  country  damsel. 

From  Baltimore  she  wrote: 

**  I've  been  wicked,  and  I  like  it.  Edmonia 
took  me  to  Kunkel  and  Moxley's  Front  Street 
Theatre  last  night  to  hear  an  opera,  and  I 
haven't  yet  wakened  from  the  delicious  dream. 
I  think  I  never  shall.  I  think  I  never  want  to. 
Yet  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  went,  for  I  shall 
want  to  go  again  and  again  and  again,  and 
you  know  that  I  mustn't  listen  to  such  music 
as  that.  It  will  make  me  bad,  and  really  and 
truly  I'd  rather  die  than  be  bad.  I  don't  un- 
derstand it  at  all.  Why  is  it  wrong  for  me 
to  hear  great  music  when  it  isn't  wrong  for 
Edmonia  ?  And  Edmonia  has  heard  the  great- 
est music  there  is,  in  New  York  and  Paris  and 
Vienna  and  Naples,  and  it  hasn't  hurt  her  in 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

the  least.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why  I 
am  so  different,  won't  you,  Cousin  Arthur  ?  *' 

From  New  York  she  wrote  of  music  again 
and  many  times,  for  she  had  accepted  Arthur's 
assurance  that  there  was  no  harm  but  only 
good  for  her  in  listening  to  music;  and  in 
obedience  to  his  injunction  she  went  twice  each 
week  to  the  opera,  where  Edmonia's  friends, 
whose  guest  she  was,  had  a  box  of  their  own. 
Presently  came  from  her  a  pleading  letter,  ask- 
ing if  she  might  not  herself  learn  to  play  a 
little  upon  the  violin,  and  availing  herself  of 
Arthur's  more  than  ready  permission,  she 
toiled  ceaselessly  at  the  instrument  until  after 
a  month  or  so  Edmonia  reported  that  the  girl's 
music  master  was  raving  about  the  extraordi- 
nary gifts  she  was  manifesting. 

"I  am  a  trifle  worried  about  it,  Arthur," 
Edmonia  added.  "  Perhaps  her  father  was 
right  to  forbid  all  this.  Music  is  not  merely 
a  delight  to  her — it  is  a  passion,  an  intoxica- 
tion, almost  a  madness.  She  is  very  fond  of 
dancing  too,  but  I  think  dancing  is  to  her  little 
more  than  a  physical  participation  in  the  music. 

"  And  she  mightily  enjoys  society.  Still 
more  does  society  enjoy  her.  Her  simplicity, 
her  directness  and  her  perfect  truthfulness,  are 
qualities  not  very  common,  you  know,  in  so- 


CORRESPONDENCE 

ciety,  in  New  York  or  anywhere  else.  People 
are  delighted  with  her,  and,  without  knowing 
it,  she  is  the  reigning  attraction  in  every  draw- 
ing room.  Ah  me !  She  will  have  to  know  it 
presently,  for  I  foresee  that  '  the  young  Vir- 
ginia belle/  as  they  all  call  her,  will  have  many 
suitors  for  her  hand  before  we  sail — two  weeks 
hence. 

"  She  astonishes  society  in  many  ways.  She 
is  so  perfectly  well  always,  for  one  thing.  She 
is  never  tired  and  never  has  a  headache.  Most 
astonishing  of  all,  to  the  weary  butterflies  of 
fashion,  she  gets  up  early  in  the  morning  and 
takes  long  rides  on  horseback  before  breakfast. 

"  In  certain  companies — the  sedater  sort — 
she  is  reckoned  a  brilliant  conversationalist. 
That  is  because  she  reads  and  thinks,  as  not 
many  girls  of  her  age  ever  do.  In  more  frivo- 
lous society  she  talks  very  little  and  is  perhaps 
a  rather  difficult  person  for  the  average  young 
man  to  talk  to.  That  also  is  because  she  reads 
and  thinks. 

''  On  the  whole,  Arthur,  Dorothy  is  develop- 
ing altogether  to  my  satisfaction,  but  I  am 
troubled  about  the  music.  Dr.  South  had  a 
reason,  of  which  you  know  nothing,  for  fear- 
ing music  in  her  case,  as  a  dangerous  intoxica- 
tion.   Perhaps  we  ought  not  to  disobey  his  in- 


VOROTHT  SOUTH 

struct  ions  on  the  subject.  Won't  you  think 
the  matter  over,  Arthur,  and  advise  me  ?  " 

To  this  request  Arthur's  reply  came 
promptly.  It  was  an  oracular  deliverance,  such 
as  he  was  accustomed  to  give  only  when  abso- 
lutely sure  of  his  judgment. 

"  Have  no  fear  as  to  the  music,"  he  wrote. 
"  It  is  not  an  intoxication  to  Dorothy,  as  your 
report  shows  that  indulgence  in  it  is  not  fol- 
lowed by  reaction  and  lassitude.  That  is  the 
sure  test  of  intoxication.  For  the  rest  Dorothy 
has  a  right  to  cultivate  and  make  the  most  of 
the  divine  gifts  she  possesses.  Every  human 
being  has  that  right,  and  it  is  a  cruel  wrong  to 
forbid  its  exercise  in  any  case.  I  am  delighted 
to  see  from  your  letters  and  hers  that  she  has 
not  permitted  her  interest  in  music  to  impair 
her  interest  in  other  things.  She  tells  me  she 
has  been  reading  a  book  on  '  The  Origin  of 
Species '  by  Charles  Darwin.  I  have  heard  of 
it  but  haven't  seen  it  yet,  as  it  was  published  in 
England  only  a  few  months  ago  and  had  not 
been  reprinted  here  when  I  last  wrote  to  New 
York  for  some  books.  So  please  ask  Dorothy  to 
send  me  her  copy  as  soon  as  she  has  finished  it, 
and  tell  her  please  not  to  rub  out  the  marginal 
notes  she  tells  me  she  has  been  making  in  it. 
They  will  be  helpfully  suggestive  to  me  in  my 

326 


CORRESPONDENCE 

reading,  and,  as  expressions  of  her  uninfluenced 
opinion,  I  shall  value  them  even  more  than  the 
text  of  the  book  itself.  She  tells  me  she  thinks 
the  book  will  work  a  revolution  in  science,  giv- 
ing us  a  new  foundation  to  build  upon.  I  sin- 
cerely hope  so.  We  have  long  been  in  need  of 
new  foundations.  But,  pardon  me,  you  are  not 
interested  in  scientific  studies  and  I  will  write 
to  Dorothy  herself  about  all  that." 

At  this  point  in  her  reading  Edmonia  laid 
the  letter  in  her  lap  and  left  it  there  for  a  con- 
siderable time  before  taking  it  up  again.  She 
was  thinking,  a  trifle  sadly,  perhaps,  but  not 
gloomily  or  with  pain. 

"  He  is  right,"  she  reflected.  "  I  sympathize 
with  him  in  his  high  purposes  and  I  share  the 
general  admiration  of  his  character  and  genius. 
But  I  do  not  share  his  real  enthusiasms  as  Dor- 
othy does.  I  have  none  of  that  love  for  scien- 
tific truth  for  its  own  sake,  which  is  an  essential 
part  of  his  being.  I  have  none  of  his  self-sacri- 
ficing earnestness,  none  of  that  divine  discon- 
tent which  is  the  mainspring  of  all  his  acts  and 
all  his  thinking.  It  is  greatly  better  as  Fate  has 
ordered  it.  I  am  no  fit  life  partner  for  him. 
Had  he  married  me  I  should  have  made  him 
happy  in  a  way,  perhaps,  but  it  would  have 
been  at  cost  of  his  deterioration.     It  is  better 

327 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

as  it  is — immeasurably  better, — and  I  must 
school  myself  to  think  of  it  in  that  way.  If  I 
am  worthy  even  of  the  friendship  that  he  so 
generously  gives  me,  I  shall  learn  to  rejoice 
that  he  gives  the  love  to  Dorothy  instead,  and 
not  to  me.  I  must  learn  to  think  of  his  good 
and  the  fit  working  out  of  his  life  as  the 
worthiest  thing  I  can  strive  for.  And  I  am 
learning  this  lesson.  It  is  a  little  hard  at  first, 
but  I  shall  master  it." 

A  few  days  later  Dorothy,  in  one  of  her  un- 
consciously self-revealing  letters,  wrote: 

"  I  am  sending  you  the  Darwin  book,  with  all 
my  crude  little  notes  in  the  margins.  I  have 
sealed  it  up  quite  securely  and  paid  full  letter 
postage  on  it,  because  it  would  be  unjust  to  the 
government  to  send  a  book  with  writing  in  it, 
at  book  postage  rates.  Besides,  I  don't  want 
anybody  but  you  to  read  the  notes.  Edmonia 
asked  me  to  let  her  see  the  book  before  sending 
it,  but  I  told  her  I  couldn't  because  I  should  die 
of  shame  if  anybody  should  read  my  presump- 
tuous comments  on  so  great  a  book.  For  it  is 
great,  really  and  truly  great.  It  is  the  greatest 
explanation  of  nature  that  anybody  ever  yet 
offered.  At  least  that  is  the  way  it  impresses 
me.  Edmonia  asked  me  why  I  was  so  chary  of 
letting  her  see  notes  that  I  was  entirely  willing 

328 


CORRESPONDENCE 

for  you  to  see,  and  at  first  I  couldn't  explain 
it  even  to  myself,  for,  of  course,  I  love  Edmonia 
better  than  anybody  else  in  the  world,  and  I 
have  no  secrets  from  her.  I  told  her  I  would 
have  to  think  the  matter  over  before  I  could  ex- 
plain it,  and  she  said :  *  Think  it  out,  child, 
and  when  you  find  out  the  explanation  you  may 
tell  me  about  it  or  not,  just  as  you  please.*  She 
kindly  laughed  it  off,  but  it  troubled  me  a  good 
deal.  I  couldn't  understand  why  it  was  that  I 
couldn't  bear  to  let  her  see  the  notes,  while  I 
rather  wanted  you  to  read  them.  I  found  it  all 
out  at  last,  and  explained  it  to  her,  and  she 
seemed  satisfied.  It's  because  you  know  so 
much.  You  are  my  Master,  and  you  always 
know  how  to  allow  for  your  pupil's  wrong 
thinking  even  while  you  set  me  right.  Besides, 
somehow  I  am  never  ashamed  of  my  ignorance 
when  only  you  know  of  it.  Edmonia  said  that 
was  quite  natural,  and  that  I  was  entirely  right 
not  to  show  the  scribbled  book  to  her.  So  I 
don't  think  I  hurt  her  feelings,  do  you  ? 

"  Now,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  another 
thought  of  mine  which  may  puzzle  you — or  it 
may  make  you  laugh  as  it  does  other  people. 
There's  a  woman  here — a  very  bright  woman 
but  not,  to  my  taste,  a  lovely  one — who  is  very 
learned  in  a  superficial  way.    She  knows  every- 

329 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

thing  that  is  current  in  science,  art,  literature, 
and  fashion,  though  she  seems  to  me  deficient 
in  thoroughness.  She  *  has  the  patter  of  it  all  at 
her  tongue's  end/  as  they  say  here,  but  I  don't 
think  she  knows  much  behind  the  patter.  A 
wise  editor  whom  I  met  at  dinner  a  few  days 
ago,  described  her  as  *  a  person  who  holds  her- 
self qualified  to  discuss  and  decide  anything  in 
heaven  or  earth  from  the  standpoint  of  the  cy- 
clopaedia and  her  own  inner  consciousness.' 
She  writes  for  one  of  the  newspapers,  though  I 
didn't  know  it  when  she  talked  with  me  about 
Darwin.  I  told  her  I  thought  of  Darwin's  book 
as  a  great  poem.  You  would  have  understood 
me,  if  I  had  said  that  to  you,  wouldn't  you? 
You  know  I  always  think  of  the  grass,  and  the 
trees  and  the  flowers,  and  the  birds  and  the 
butterflies,  and  all  the  rest,  as  nature's  poems, 
and  this  book  seems  to  me  a  great  epic  which 
dominates  and  includes,  and  interprets  them  all, 
just  as  Homer  and  Milton  and  Virgil  and  Tasso 
and  especially  Shakespeare,  dominate  all  the 
little  twitterings  of  all  the  other  poets.  Any- 
how it  seems  to  me  that  a  book  which  tells  us 
how  all  things  came  about,  is  a  poem  and 
a  very  great  one.  I  said  so  to  this  woman, 
and  next  day  I  saw  it  all  printed  in  the  news- 


CORRESPONDENCE 

paper  for  which  she  writes.  I  shouldn't  have 
minded  that  as  she  didn't  tell  my  name,  but  I 
thought  she  seemed  to  laugh  and  jeer  at  my 
thought.  She  said  something  witty  about  try- 
ing to  turn  Darwin  into  dactyls  and  substitute 
dithyrambics  for  dogmatics  in  the  writings  of 
Sir  Isaac  Newton.  Somehow  it  all  sounded 
bright  and  witty  as  one  read  it  in  the  news- 
paper. But  is  that  the  way  in  which  a  serious 
thought  ought  to  be  treated?  Do  the  news- 
papers, when  they  thus  flippantly  deal  with 
serious  things,  really  minister  to  human  ad- 
vancement? Do  they  not  rather  retard  it  by 
making  jests  of  things  that  are  not  jests?  I 
have  come  to  know  a  good  many  newspaper 
writers  since  I  have  been  here,  and  I  am  con- 
vinced that  they  have  no  real  seriousness  in 
their  work,  no  controlling  conscience.  *  The 
newspaper '  said  one  of  the  greatest  of  them 
to  me  not  long  ago,  '  is  a  mirror  of  today.  It 
doesn't  bother  itself  much  with  tomorrow  or 
yesterday.'  I  asked  him  why  it  should  not  re- 
flect today  accurately,  instead  of  distorting 
i*  with  smartness.  '  Oh,'  he  answered,  '  we 
can't  stop  to  consider  such  things.  We  must 
do  that  which  will  please  and  attract  the  reader, 
regardless  of  everything  else.     Dulness  is  the 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

only  thing  we  must  avoid  as  we  shun  the  pesti- 
lence, and  erudition  and  profundity  are  always 
duU/ 

"  *  But  doesn't  the  newspaper  assume  to  teach 
men  and  women  ? '  I  asked.  '  And  is  it  not  in 
conscience  bound  to  teach  them  the  truth  and 
not  falsehood  ?  * 

"  *  Oh,  yes,  that's  the  theory,'  he  answered. 
*  But  how  can  we  live  up  to  it  ?  Take  this  mat- 
ter of  Darwinism,  for  example.  We  can't  af- 
ford to  employ  great  scientific  men  to  discuss  it 
seriously  in  our  columns.  And  if  we  did,  only 
a  few  would  read  what  they  wrote  about  it. 
We  have  bright  fellows  on  our  editorial  staffs 
who  know  how  to  make  it  interesting  by  play- 
ing with  it,  and  for  our  purpose  that  is  much 
better  than  any  amount  of  learning.' 

*'  I  have  been  thinking  this  thing  over  and 
I  have  stopped  the  reading  of  newspapers.  For 
I  find  that  they  deal  in  the  same  way  with 
everything  else — except  politics,  perhaps,  and, 
of  course,  I  know  nothing  of  politics.  I  read  a 
criticism  of  a  concert  the  other  day  in  which 
a  singer  was — well,  never  mind  the  details. 
The  man  that  wrote  that  criticism  didn't  hear 
the  concert  at  all,  as  he  confessed  to  me.  He 
was  attending  another  theatre  at  the  time.  Yet 
he  assumed  to  criticise  a  singer  to  her  detriment, 


CORRESPONDENCE 

utterly  ignoring  the  fact  that  she  has  her  living 
to  make  by  singing  and  that  his  criticism  might 
seriously  affect  her  prospects.  He  laughed 
the  matter  off,  and  when  I  seemed  disturbed 
about  it  he  said :  *  For  your  sake,  Miss  South, 
I'll  make  amends.  She  sings  again  to-morrow, 
and  while  I  shall  not  be  able  to  hear  her,  I'll 
give  her  such  a  laudation  as  shall  warm  the 
cockles  of  her  heart  and  make  her  manager 
mightily  glad.  You'll  forgive  me,  then,  for 
censuring  her  yesterday,  I'm  sure.'  I'm  afraid 
I  misbehaved  myself  then.  I  told  him  I 
shouldn't  read  his  article,  that  I  hated  lies  and 
shams  and  false  pretences,  and  that  I  didn't 
consider  his  articles  worth  reading  because  they 
had  no  truth  or  honesty  behind  them.  It  was 
dreadfully  rude,  I  know,  and  yet  I'm  not  sorry 
for  it.  For  it  seemed  to  make  an  impression 
on  him.  He  told  me  that  he  only  needed  some 
such  influence  as  mine  to  give  him  a  conscience 
in  his  work,  and  he  actually  asked  me  to  marry 
him !  Think  of  the  absurdity  of  it !  I  told  him 
I  wasn't  thinking  of  marrying  anybody — that 
I  was  barely  seventeen,  that — oh,  well,  I  dis- 
missed the  poor  fellow  as  gently  as  I  could." 
But  while  the  proposal  of  marriage  by  the 
newspaper  man,  and  several  other  such  solicita- 
tions which  followed  it,  struck  Dorothy  at  first 

333 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

as  absurdities,  they  wrought  a  marked  change 
in  her  mental  attitude.  Two  at  least  of  these 
proposals  were  inspired  by  higher  considera- 
tions than  those  of  the  plantation  which  Dor- 
othy represented,  and  were  pressed  with  fervor 
and  tenderness  by  men  quite  worthy  to  aspire 
to  Dorothy's  hand.  These  were  men  of  sub- 
stance and  character,  in  whose  minds  the  fas- 
cination which  the  Virginia  girl  unwittingly 
exercised  over  everybody  with  whom  she  came 
into  contact — ^men  and  women  alike — had 
quickly  ripened  into  a  strong  and  enduring  pas- 
sion. Dorothy  suffered  much  in  rejecting  such 
suits  as  theirs,  but  she  learned  something  of 
herself  in  the  process.  She  for  the  first  time 
realized  that  she  was  a  woman  and  that  she 
had  actually  entered  upon  that  career  of  wo- 
manhood which  had  before  seemed  so  far  away 
in  the  future  that  thoughts  of  it  had  never  be- 
fore caused  her  to  blush  and  tremble  as  they 
did  now. 

These  things  set  her  thinking,  and  in  her 
thinking  she  half  realized  her  own  state  of 
mind.  She  began  dimly  to  understand  the 
change  that  had  come  over  her  attitude  and 
feeling  towards  Arthur  Brent.  She  would 
not  let  herself  believe  that  she  loved  him  as  a 
woman  loves  but  one  man  while  she  lives;  but 

334 


CORRESPONDENCE 

she  admitted  to  herself  that  she  might  come  to 
love  him  in  that  way  if  he  should  ever  ask  her 
to  do  so  with  the  tenderness  and  manifest  sin- 
cerity which  these  others  had  shown.  But  of 
that  she  permitted  herself  to  entertain  no  hope 
and  even  no  thought.  His  letters  to  her,  in- 
deed, seemed  to  put  that  possibility  out  of  the 
question.  For  at  this  time  Arthur  held  himself 
under  severe  restraint.  He  was  determined 
that  he  should  not  in  any  remotest  way  take 
advantage  of  his  position  with  respect  to  Dor- 
othy, or  use  his  influence  over  her  as  a  means 
of  winning  her.  He  knew  now  his  own  condi- 
tion of  mind  and  soul  in  all  its  fulness.  He 
was  conscious  now  that  the  light  of  his  life 
lay  in  the  hope  of  some  day  winning  Dorothy's 
love  and  making  her  all  and  altogether  his  own. 
But  he  was  more  than  ever  determined,  as  he 
formulated  the  thought  in  his  own  mind,  to 
give  Dorothy  a  chance,  to  take  no  advantage 
of  her,  to  leave  her  free  to  make  choice  for  her- 
self. It  was  his  fixed  determination,  should 
she  come  back  heart  whole  from  this  journey, 
to  woo  her  with  all  the  fervor  of  his  soul;  but 
the  more  determined  he  became  in  this  resolu- 
tion, the  more  resolutely  did  he  guard  his  writ- 
ten words  against  the  possibility  that  they 
might  reveal  aught  of  this  to  her.    "  If  she  ever 

335 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

comes  to  love  me  as  my  wife,"  he  resolved,  "  it 
shall  be  only  after  she  has  had  full  opportunity 
to  make  another  choice." 

Accordingly  his  letters  to  her  continued  to 
concern  themselves  with  intellectual  and  other 
external  things.  He  wrote  her  half  a  ream  of 
comment  upon  Darwin's  book,  taking  up  for 
discussion  every  marginal  note  she  had  made 
concerning  it.  But  that  part  of  his  letter  was 
as  coldly  intellectual  as  any  of  their  horseback 
conversations  had  been.  In  all  the  intimate 
parts  of  that  and  his  other  letters,  he  wrote 
only  as  one  might  to  a  sympathetic  friend,  as 
he  might  have  written  to  Edmonia,  for  exam- 
ple. He  even  took  half  unconscious  pains  to 
emphasize  the  fatherly  character  of  his  rela- 
tions with  her,  lest  they  assume  some  other 
aspect  to  her  apprehension. 

On  her  side  Dorothy  began  now  to  write 
outside  of  herself,  as  it  were.  She  described 
to  him  all  her  new  gowns  and  bonnets,  laugh- 
ing at  the  confusion  of  mind  in  which  a  study 
of  such  details  must  involve  him.  In  her  child- 
like loyalty  she  told  him  of  the  wooings  that 
so  distressed  her,  but  she  did  so  quite  as  she 
might  have  written  to  him  of  the  loves  of  Ju- 
liet and  Ophelia  and  the  Lady  of  Lyons.  For 
the  rest  she  wrote  objectively  now,  in  the  main, 


CORRESPONDENCE 

and  speculatively  concerning  certain  of  those 
social  problems  in  which  she  knew  him  to  be 
profoundly  interested,  and  which  she  was  some- 
what studying  now,  because  of  the  interest  they 
had  for  him. 

The  word  "  slumming "  had  not  been  in- 
vented at  that  time  by  the  insolence  that  does 
the  thing  it  means.  But  Dorothy,  chiefly  under 
the  guidance  of  her  friends  among  the  news- 
paper men,  went  to  see  how  the  abjectly  poor 
of  a  great  city  lived,  and  she  wrote  long  letters 
of  comment  to  Arthur  in  which  she  told  him 
how  great  and  distressing  the  revelation  was, 
and  how  she  honored  his  desire  to  do  some- 
thing for  the  amelioration  of  these  people^s 
lives.  "  Your  aspiration  is  indeed  a  noble  one," 
she  wrote  in  one  of  her  letters ;  "  the  life  you 
proposed  to  yourself,  and  from  which  you  were 
diverted  by  your  inheritance  of  a  plantation,  is 
the  very  greatest,  the  very  noblest  that  any  man 
could  lead.  I  once  thought  you  were  doing 
even  better  in  the  care  you  are  taking  of  the 
negroes  at  Wyanoke  and  Pocahontas,  and  in 
your  efforts  ultimately  to  set  them  free.  But 
that  was  when  I  did  not  know.  I  know  now, 
in  part  at  least,  and  I  understand  your  feeling 
in  the  matter  as  I  never  could  have  done  had  I 
not  seen  for  myself. 

337 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  People  here  sometimes  say  things  to  me 
that  hurt.  But  I  am  ready  with  my  answer 
now.  One  woman — very  intellectual,  but  a  cat 
— asked  me  yesterday  how  I  could  bear  to  hold 
negroes  in  slavery,  and  to  buy  fine  gowns  with 
the  proceeds  of  their  toil.  I  told  her  frankly 
that  I  didn't  like  it,  but  that  I  couldn't  help  it, 
and  in  reply  to  her  singularly  ignorant  inquir- 
ies as  to  why  I  didn't  end  the  wrong  or  at  least 
my  participation  in  it,  I  explained  some  difficul- 
ties to  her  that  she  had  never  taken  the  trouble 
to  ask  about.  I  told  her  how  hard  you  were 
working  to  discharge  the  debts  of  your  estate  in 
order  that  you  might  send  your  negroes  to  the 
west  to  be  free,  and  that  you  might  yourself 
return  to  New  York  to  do  what  you  could  for 
the  immeasurably  worse  slaves  here.  She 
caught  at  my  phrase  and  challenged  it.  I  told 
her  what  I  meant,  and  as  it  happened  to  be  in 
a  company  of  highly  intellectual  people,  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  not  to  have  talked  so  much,  but 
somehow  they  seemed  to  want  to  hear.    I  said : 

"  '  In  Virginia  I  always  visit  every  sick  per- 
son on  the  plantation  every  day.  We  send  for 
a  doctor  in  every  case,  and  we  women  sit  up 
night  after  night  to  nurse  every  one  that  needs 
it.  We  provide  proper  food  for  the  sick  and 
the  convalescent  from  our  own  tables.     We 

338 


CORRESPONDENCE 

take  care  of  the  old  and  decrepit,  and  of  all  the 
children.  From  birth  to  death  they  know  that 
they  will  be  abundantly  provided  for.  What 
poor  family  around  the  Five  Points  has  any 
such  assurance?  Who  provides  doctors  and 
medicine  and  dainties  for  them  when  they  are 
ill?  Who  cares  for  their  children?  Who  as- 
sures them,  in  childhood  and  in  old  age,  of  as 
abundant  a  supply  of  food  and  clothing,  and 
as  good  a  roof,  as  we  give  to  the  negroes?  I 
go  every  morning,  as  I  just  now  said,  to  see 
every  sick  or  afflicted  negro  on  my  own  plan- 
tation and  on  that  of  my  guardian.  How  often 
have  you  gone  to  the  region  of  the  Five  Points 
to  minister  to  those  who  are  ill  and  suffering 
and  perhaps  starving  there  ?  ' 

"  '  Oh,  that  is  all  cared  for  by  the  charitable 
organizations '  she  said,  '  and  by  the  city  mis- 
sionaries.' 

"  '  Is  it  ?  '  I  answered.  '  I  do  not  find  it  so. 
I  have  emptied  my  purse  a  dozen  times  in  an 
effort  to  get  a  doctor  for  a  very  ill  person  here, 
and  to  buy  the  medicines  he  prescribed,  and  to 
provide  food  for  starving  ones.  And  then, 
next  day  I  have  found  that  the  sick  have  died 
because  the  well  did  not  know  how  to  cook  the 
food  I  had  provided,  or  how  to  follow  the 
doctor's  directions  in  the  giving  of  medicine. 

339 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

I  tell  you  these  poor  people  are  immeasurably 
worse  off  than  any  negro  slave  at  the  South  is, 
or  ever  was.  So  far  as  I  can  learn  there  is  no 
working  population  in  the  world  that  gets  half 
so  much  of  comfort  and  care  and  reward  of 
every  sort  for  its  labor,  as  the  negroes  of  Vir- 
ginia get.' 

"  Then  the  woman  broke  out.     She  said : 

*  You  are  dressed  in  a  superb  satin  ' — it  was  at 
a  social  function — '  and  every  dollar  of  its  cost 
was  earned  by  a  negro  slave  on  your  planta- 
tion.' I  answered,  '  You  are  equally  well 
dressed.  Will  you  tell  me  who  earned  the 
money  that  paid  for  your  satin  gown  ?  '  Then, 
Cousin  Arthur,  I  lost  my  temper  and  my  man- 
ners. I  told  her  that  while  we  in  Virginia 
profited  by  the  labor  of  our  negroes,  we  gave 
them,  as  the  reward  of  their  labor,  every  desire 
of  their  hearts  and,  besides  that,  an  assurance 
of  support  in  absolute  comfort  for  their  old  age, 
and  for  their  children ;  while  the  laboring  class 
in  New  York,  from  whose  labor  she  profited, 
and  whose  toil  purchased  her  gown,  had  no- 
body to  care  for  them  in  infancy  or  old 
age,    in    poverty    and    illness    and    suffering. 

*  It    is    all    wrong    on    both    sides,'    I    said. 

*  The  toilers  ought  to  have  the  full  fruits 
of  their  toil  in  both  cases.     The  luxury  of 

340 


CORRESPONDENCE 

the  rich  is  a  robbery  of  the  poor  always 
and  everywhere.  There  ought  not  to  be  any 
such  thing  anywhere.  The  woman  who  made 
your  underclothing  was  robbed  when  you 
bought  it  at  the  price  you  did.  You  wronged 
and  defrauded  the  silk  spinners  and  weavers 
and  the  sewing  women  when  you  bought  your 
gown.  Worse  than  that ;  you  have  among  you 
men  who  have  accumulated  great  fortunes  in 
manufactures  and  commerce.  How  did  they 
do  it  ?  Was  it  not  in  commerce  by  paying  the 
producers  for  their  products  less  than  they  were 
worth  ?  Was  it  not  in  manufactures  by  paying 
men  and  women  and  children  less  than  they 
have  earned  ?  Was  not  the  great  Astor  estate 
based  upon  a  shrewd  robbery  of  the  Indian 
trappers  and  hunters?  And  has  it  not  been 
swelled  to  its  present  proportions  by  the  growth 
of  a  city  to  whose  growth  the  Astors  have  never 
contributed  a  single  dollar?  Isn't  the  whole 
thing  a  wrong  and  a  robbery  ?  Isn't  the  *'  Song 
of  the  Shirt  "  a  reflection  of  truth  ?  Isn't  there 
slavery  in  New  York  as  actually  as  in  Vir- 
ginia, and  isn't  it  infinitely  more  cruel  ? ' 

"  Then  the  woman  shifted  her  ground.  '  But 
at  least  our  laborers  are  free,'  she  said.  *  Are 
they  ?  '  I  answered.  *  Are  they  free  to  deter- 
mine for  whom  they  will  work  or  at  what 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

wages?  Cannot  their  masters,  who  are  their 
employers,  discharge  them  at  will,  when  they 
get  old  or  feeble  or  otherwise  incompetent,  and 
leave  them  to  starve  ?  No  master  of  a  Virginia 
plantation  can  do  that.  His  neighbors  would 
actually  lynch  him  should  he  turn  a  decrepit 
old  negro  out  to  die  or  even  should  he  deny  to 
him  the  abundant  food  and  clothing  and  hous- 
ing that  he  gives  to  the  able-bodied  negroes 
who  make  crops.  And,'  I  added,  for  I  was  ex- 
cited, '  this  cruelty  is  not  confined  to  what  are 
ordinarily  called  the  laboring  classes.  I  know  a 
man  of  unusual  intellectual  capacity,  who  has 
worked  for  years  to  build  up  the  fortunes  of  his 
employers.  He  has  had  what  is  regarded  as  a 
very  high  salary.  But  being  a  man  of  gener- 
ous mind  he  has  spent  his  money  freely  in  edu- 
cating the  ten  or  a  dozen  sons  and  daughters 
of  his  less  fortunate  brother.  He  is  growing 
old  now.  He  has  earned  for  his  master,  a  thou- 
sand dollars  for  every  dollar  of  salary  that  he 
ever  received  just  as  all  his  fellow  workers  in 
the  business  have  done.  But  he  is  growing  old 
now,  and  under  the  strain  of  night  and  day 
work,  he  has  acquired  the  habit  of  drinking  too 
much.  He  hasn't  a  thousand  dollars  in  the 
world  as  his  reward  for  helping  to  make  this 
other  man,  his  master,  absurdly,  iniquitously 


CORRESPONDENCE 

rich.  Yet  in  his  age  and  infirmity,  the  other 
man,  luxuriating  in  his  palatial  summer  home 
which  is  only  one  of  the  many  palaces  that  other 
men's  toil  late  into  the  night  has  provided  for 
him,  decides  that  the  old  servitor  is  no  longer 
worth  his  salary,  and  decrees  his  discharge.  Is 
there  anything  so  cruel  as  that  in  negro  sla- 
very ?  Is  that  man  half  so  well  off  as  my  negro 
mammy,  who  has  a  house  of  her  own  and  all 
the  food  and  clothes  she  wants  at  the  age  of 
eighty,  and  who  could  have  the  service  of  a 
dozen  negro  attendants  for  the  mere  asking  ? ' 
"  Now,  Cousin  Arthur,  please  don't  misun- 
derstand me.  Even  what  I  have  seen  at  the 
Five  Points  doesn't  tempt  me  to  believe  in  slav- 
ery. I  want  of  all  things  to  see  that  extermi- 
nated. But,  really  and  truly,  I  find  an  immeas- 
urably worse  slavery  here  in  New  York  than  I 
ever  saw  in  Virginia,  and  I  want  to  see  it  all 
abolished  together,  not  merely  the  best  and 
kindliest  and  most  humane  part  of  it.  I  want 
to  see  the  time  when  every  human  being  who 
works  shall  enjoy  the  full  results  of  his  work ; 
when  no  man  shall  be  any  other  man's  master ; 
when  no  man  shall  grow  rich  by  pocketing  the 
proceeds  of  any  other  man's  genius  or  industry. 
I  said  all  this  to  that  woman,  and  she  replied : 
*  You  are  obviously  a  pestilent  socialist.    You 

343 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

are  as  bad  as  Fourier  and  Albert  Brisbane  and 
Horace  Greeley.'  That  was  very  rude  of  her, 
seeing  that  Mr.  Greeley  was  present,  but  I've 
noticed  that  the  people  who  most  highly  pride 
themselves  on  good  manners  are  often  rude  and 
inconsiderate  of  others  to  a  degree  that  would 
not  be  tolerated  in  Virginia  society — except 
perhaps  from  Mr.  Madison  Peyton.  By  the 
way,  Mr.  Jefferson  Peyton  was  present,  and  to 
my  regret  he  said  some  things  in  defence  of 
slavery  which  I  could  not  at  all  approve.  Mr. 
Greeley  interrupted  him  to  say  something  like 
this : 

"  *  The  dear  young  lady  is  quite  right.  We 
have  a  horrible  slavery  right  here  in  New  York, 
and  we  ought  to  make  war  on  that  as  earnestly 
as  we  do  on  African  slavery  at  the  South.  I'm 
trying  to  do  it  in  the  Try-bune ' — that's  the 
way  he  pronounces  the  name  of  his  paper — 
*  and  I'm  going  to  keep  on  trying.' 

*'  That  encouraged  me,  for  I  find  myself 
more  and  more  disposed  to  respect  Mr.  Greeley 
as  I  come  to  know  him  better,  I  don't  always 
agree  with  him.  I  sometimes  think  he  is  one- 
sided in  his  views,  and  of  course  he  is  enor- 
mously self-conceited.  But  he  is,  at  any  rate, 
an  honest  man,  and  a  brave  and  sincere  one. 
He  isn't  afraid  to  say  what  he  thinks,  any  more 

344 


CORRESPONDENCE 

than  you  are,  and  I  like  him  for  that.  Another 
great  editor  whom  I  have  met  frequently,  seems 
to  me  equally  courageous,  but  far  less  consci- 
entious. He  is  inclined  to  take  what  he  calls 
'  the  newspaper  view  '  of  things, — ^by  which  he 
means  the  view  that  appeals  to  the  multitude  for 
the  moment,  without  much  regard  for  any  fixed 
principle.  Socially  he  is  a  much  more  agree- 
able man  than  Mr.  Greeley,  but  I  don't  think 
him  so  trustworthy.  Mr.  Greeley  impresses 
me  as  a  man  who  may  be  enormously  wrong- 
headed,  under  the  influence  of  his  prejudiced 
misconceptions,  but  who,  wrong-headed  or 
right-headed,  will  never  consciously  wrong 
others.  If  he  had  been  born  the  master  of  a 
Virginia  plantation  he  would  have  dealt  with 
his  negroes  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  he  has 
insisted  upon  giving  to  his  fellow  workers  on 
the  Tribune  a  share  in  the  profits  of  their  joint 
work.  Mr.  Greeley  is  odd,  but  I  like  him  better 
than  any  editor  I  have  met." 

So  the  girl  went  on,  writing  objectively  and 
instinctively  avoiding  the  subjective.  But  she 
did  not  always  write  so  seriously.  She  had 
"  caught  the  patter  '*  of  society  and  she  often 
filled  pages  with  a  sparkling,  piquant  flippancy, 
which  had  for  Arthur  a  meaning  all  its  own. 

345 


XXX 

AT  SEA 

rHE  voyage  to  Europe  in  i860  was  a 
much  more  serious  undertaking  than 
the  like  voyage  is  in  our  later  time. 
It  occupied  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  for  one 
thing,  where  now  a  week  is  ample  time  for  the 
passage.  The  steamers  were  small  and  uncom- 
fortable— the  very  largest  of  them  being  only 
half  the  size  of  the  very  smallest  now  regarded 
as  fit  for  passenger  service.  There  was  no 
promenade  deck  or  hurricane  deck  then,  above 
the  main  deck,  which  was  open  to  the  sky 
throughout  its  length  and  breadth,  except  for 
the  interruption  of  one  small  deck  house,  cov- 
ering the  companion  way,  a  ventilator  pipe  here 
and  there,  and  perhaps  a  chicken  coop  to  fur- 
nish emaciated  and  sea  sick  fowls  for  the  table 
d'hdte.  There  was  no  ice  machine  on  board, 
and  no  distilling  apparatus  for  the  production 
of  fresh  water.  As  a  consequence,  after  two 
days  out,  the  warm  water  which  passengers 
must  drink  began  to  taste  of  the  ancient  wood 


4T  SEA 

of  the  water  tanks;  at  the  end  of  a  week  it 
became  sickeningly  foul;  and  before  the  end 
of  the  voyage  it  became  so  utterly  undrink- 
able  that  the  most  aggressive  teetotaler  among 
the  passengers  was  compelled  to  order  wine  for 
his  dinner  and  to  abstain  from  coffee  at  break- 
fast. 

The  passenger  who  did  not  grow  seasick  in 
those  days  was  a  rare  exception  to  an  other- 
wise universal  rule,  while,  in  our  time,  when 
the  promenade  deck  is  forty  or  fifty  feet  above 
the  waves,  and  the  passengers  are  abundantly 
supplied  both  with  palatable  food  and  with 
wholesome  water,  only  those  suffer  with  mal 
de  mer  who  are  bilious  when  they  go  on  board, 
or  who  are  beset  by  a  senseless  apprehension 
of  the  sea. 

The  passenger  lists  were  small,  too,  even  al- 
lowing for  the  diminutive  size  of  the  ships. 
One  person  crossed  the  ocean  then  where  per- 
haps a  hundred  cross  in  our  time. 

There  were  perhaps  twenty  passengers  in 
the  cabin  of  the  ship  in  which  Dorothy  sailed. 
By  the  second  day  out  only  two  of  the  ship's 
company  appeared  at  meals  or  at  all  regularly 
took  the  air  on  deck.  Dorothy  was  one  of  these 
two.  The  other  she  herself  introduced,  as  it 
were,  to  Arthur,  in  a  long,  diary-like  letter 

347 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

which  she  wrote  on  shipboard  and  mailed  at 
Liverpool. 

"  I'm  sitting  on  a  great  coil  of  rope,  just 
behind  the  deck  house,"  she  wrote,  "  where  I 
am  sheltered  from  the  wind  and  where  I  can 
breathe  my  whole  body  full  of  the  delicious 
sea  air.  The  air  is  flavored  with  great  quanti- 
ties of  the  finest  sunshine  imaginable.  Every 
now  and  then  I  lay  my  paper  down,  and  a  very 
nice  old  sailor  comes  and  puts  two  big  iron  be- 
laying pins  on  it,  to  keep  it  from  blowing  over- 
board while  I  go  skipping  like  a  ten-year-old 
girl  up  and  down  the  broad,  clean  deck,  and  en- 
joying the  mere  being  alive,  just  as  I  do  on 
horseback  in  Virginia  when  the  sun  is  rising  on 
a  perfect  morning. 

"  I  ought  to  be  down  stairs — no,  I  mustn't 
say  '  down  stairs,'  when  I'm  at  sea,  I  must  say 
*  below.'  Well,  I  ought  to  be  below  ministering 
to  Edmonia  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Livingston, 
— or  Mildred,  as  she  insists  on  my  calling  her 
— both  of  whom  are  frightfully  sick ;  but  really 
and  truly,  Edmonia  won't  let  me.  She  fairly 
drove  me  out,  half  an  hour  ago.  When  I  didn't 
want  to  go  she  threatened  to  throw  her  shoes 
at  my  head,  saying  *  You  dear  little  idiot,  go  on 
deck  and  keep  your  sea- well  on,  if  you  can.' 
And  when  I  protested  that  she  seemed  very  ill 

348 


4T  SEA 

and  that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  go  on  the  beauti- 
ful deck  and  be  happy  in  the  dehcious  air  and 
sunshine  while  she  was  suffering-  so,  she  said: 
*  Oh,  I'm  always  so  for  the  first  three  or  four 
days,  and  I'm  best  let  alone.  My  temper  is 
frightful  when  I'm  seasick.  That's  why  I  took 
separate  staterooms  for  you  and  me.  I  don't 
want  you  to  find  out  what  a  horribly  ill-tem- 
pered, ill-mannered  woman  I  am  when  I'm 
seasick.  How  can  I  help  it?  I've  got  a  mus- 
tard plaster  on  my  back  and  two  on  my  chest, 
and  I've  drunk  half  a  bottle  of  that  detestable 
stuff,  champagne,  and  I'm  really  fighting  mad. 
Go  away,  child,  and  let  me  fight  it  out  with  my- 
self and  the  stewardesses.  They  don't  mind  it, 
the  dear  good  creatures.  They're  used  to  it. 
I  threw  a  coffee  cup  full  of  coffee  all  over  one 
of  them  this  morning  because  she  presumed  to 
insist  upon  my  swallowing  the  horrible  stuff, 
and  she  actually  laughed,  Dorothy.  I  couldn't 
get  up  a  quarrel  with  her  no  matter  what  I  did, 
and  so  I  tried  my  hand  on  the  ship's  doctor.  I 
don't  like  him  anyhow.  He's  just  the  kind  that 
would  make  love  to  me  if  he  dared,  and  I  don't 
like  men  that  do  that.'  Then  Edmonia  added : 
'  He  wouldn't  quarrel  at  all.  When  I  told  him 
he  was  trying  to  poison  me  with  bicarbonate  of 
soda  in  my  drinking  water,  he  seriously  as- 

349 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

sured  me  that  bicarbonate  of  soda  isn't  poison- 
ous in  the  least  degree,  that  it  corrects  acidity, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  gave  him  up  as 
hopeless, — but  remind  me,  Dorothy,  that  when 
we  go  ashore  I  must  put  half  a  dozen  sovereigns 
into  his  hand — carefully  wrapped  up  in  paper, 
so  that  he  shan't  even  guess  what  they  are — as 
his  well  earned  fee  for  enduring  my  bad  temper. 
But  now,  Dorothy,  you  see  clearly  that  this 
ship  doesn't  provide  any  proper  person  for  me 
to  quarrel  with,  and  so  I  must  fall  back  upon 
you,  if  you  persist  in  staying  here  and  arro- 
gantly insulting  me  with  your  sublime  superior- 
ity to  seasickness.  So  get  out  of  my  room  and 
stay  out  till  I  come  on  deck  with  my  mind 
restored  to  a  normal  condition.'  I  really  think 
she  meant  it,  and  so  I'm  obeying  her.  And  I 
should  be  very  happy  with  the  air  and  the  sun- 
shine and  my  dear  old  sailorman  who  tells  me 
sailor  stories  and  sings  to  me  the  very  quaintest 
old  sailor  songs  imaginable,  if  I  could  be  sure 
that  I'm  doing  right  in  being  happy  while  Ed- 
monia  is  so  very  miserable. 

"As  for  Mildred — Mrs.  Livingston — she 
lies  white-faced  and  helpless  in  her  bunk — 
there,  I  got  the  sailor  term  right  that  time  at  the 
first  effort — while  her  husband  simply  sleeps 
and  moans  on  the  sofa.    The  doctor  says  they 


AT  SEA 

are  *  progressing  very  satisfactorily '  and  so  1 
am  taking  his  advice  and  letting  them  alone. 
But  why  anybody  should  be  seasick,  how  any- 
body can  be  sick  at  sea,  I  simply  cannot  under- 
stand. The  ship's  doctor  tried  to  explain  it  to 
me  this  morning,  but  he  forgot  his  explanation. 
He — well,  never  mind.  He  ought  to  have  a 
wife  with  a  plantation  or  something  of  that  sort, 
so  that  his  abilities  might  have  an  opportunity. 
I  don't  think  much  of  his  abilities,  and  I  don't 
like  him  half  as  well  as  I  do  my  old  sailor.  He 
is  going  to  tell  me — the  old  sailor,  I  mean  and 
not  the  doctor — all  about  his  life  history  to- 
night. We  are  to  have  a  moon,  you  know,  and, 
as  he's  on  the  '  port  watch,'  whatever  that  may 
mean,  he's  going  to  come  on  deck  and  tell  me 
all  about  himself.  I'll  tell  you  about  it  in  to- 
morrow's instalment  of  this  rambling  letter." 

On  the  following  day,  or  perhaps  a  day  later 
even  than  that,  Dorothy  wrote : 

"  This  is  another  day.  I  don't  just  know 
what  day.  You  know  they  keep  changing  the 
clock  at  sea,  and  I've  got  mixed  up.  Edmonia 
still  throws  shoes  and  medicine  bottles  and  cof- 
fee cups  at  me  whenever  I  thrust  my  head  in- 
side the  portiere  of  her  stateroom,  and  Mildred, 
though  she  has  sufficiently  recovered  to  come 
on  deck,  lies  helpless  in  a  deck  chair  which  my 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

sailor  has  *  made  fast ' — you  see  I'm  getting  to 
be  an  expert  in  nautical  terms — to  a  mast  or 
a  spar  or  something,  and  when  I  speak  to  her, 
says,  '  Go  away,  child,  and  be  happy  in  the 
midst  of  human  misery,  if  you  can.  Let  me 
alone/  When  I  ask  her  concerning  her  hus- 
band she  answers :  *  I  suppose  he's  comfortable 
in  his  misery.  At  any  rate,  he  has  two  bottles 
of  champagne  by  his  side,  and  he  is  swearing 
most  hopefully.  I  always  know  he  is  getting 
over  it  when  he  begins  to  swear  in  real  earnest, 
and  with  a  certain  discretion  in  the  choice  of  his 
oaths.  Now,  run  away,  you  ridiculously  well 
girl  or  I'll  begin  to  borrow  from  Rex's  vituper- 
ative vocabulary.'  Rex  is  her  husband  you 
know. 

"  The  sailor's  story  didn't  amount  to  any- 
thing, so  I'll  not  bother  you  with  a  repetition 
of  it." 

[As  a  strictly  confidential  communication, 
not  to  be  mentioned  to  anybody,  the  author  so 
far  intrudes  upon  attention  at  this  point,  as  to 
report  that  the  sailorman,  at  the  end  of  his  pic- 
turesque and  imaginative  narrative,  professed 
a  self-sacrificing  willingness  to  abandon  the  de- 
lights of  a  sea-faring  existence,  and  to  content 
himself  thereafter  with  the  homelier  and  less  ro- 
mantic duties  of  master  of  Pocahontas  planta- 

352 


4T  SEA 

tion.  Dorothy,  in  continuing  her  letter,  was 
quite  naturally  reticent  upon  this  point.  But 
she  went  on  liking  that  old  sailorman,  in  whose 
devotion  to  her  comfort  on  deck  nothing  seemed 
to  make  the  slightest  difference.  Perhaps  this 
chronic  mariner  already  had  *  a  wife  in  every 
port '  and  was  only  *  keeping  his  hand  in '  at 
courtship.  At  any  rate  after  duly  disciplining 
him,  Dorothy  went  on  liking  him  and  accepting 
his  manifold,  sailorly  attentions.  Ah,  these 
women !  How  very  human  they  are  in  face  of 
all  their  airs  and  pretensions !] 

It  was  a  day  later  that  Dorothy  wrote : 
"  There  is  a  very  extraordinary  lady  on 
board,  and  I  have  become  acquainted  with  her, 
in  a  way.  I  didn't  see  her  at  all  during  the 
first  day  out.  As  she  tells  me  she  is  never 
seasick,  I  suppose  she  kept  her  cabin  for  some 
other  reason.  At  any  rate  the  first  time  I  met 
her  was  on  the  morning  of  that  second  day  out, 
when  I  was  skipping  about  the  deck  and  mak- 
ing believe  that  I  was  little  Dorothy  again — 
little  ten-year-old  Dorothy,  who  didn't  care  if 
people  were  seeing  her  when  she  skipped.  The 
captain  saw  me  first.  He's  a  dear  old  fellow 
with  a  big  beard  and  nine  children  and  a  nice 
little  baby  at  home.  And,  think  of  it,  the  peo- 
ple that  hire  him  to  run  their  ship  won't  let 

353 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

him  bring  his  wife  on  board  or  any  of  his  chil- 
dren on  any  account !  That  isn't  quite  correct 
either,  for  two  voyages  ago  it  was  the  twenty- 
first  anniversary  of  his  marriage,  and  when  he 
asked  permission  to  bring  his  wife  and  baby 
with  him  on  his  trip  to  New  York  and  back, 
just  to  celebrate,  you  see,  the  company  gave  per- 
mission without  any  hesitation.  But  when  he 
came  on  board,  he  found  another  captain  in 
command  for  that  one  trip,  and  himself  only 
a  passenger.  That's  because  the  company  don't 
want  a  captain's  attention  distracted,  and  I  sup- 
pose a  new  baby  whom  he  had  never  seen  be- 
fore would  have  distracted  him  a  great  deal. 
Anyhow  that's  the  way  it  was  and  the  only 
reason  the  captain  told  me  about  it  was  that  I 
asked  him  why  he  didn't  have  his  wife  and 
children  on  board  with  him  always.  But  I  set 
out  to  tell  you  about  the  lady.  After  the  cap- 
tain had  '  captured '  me,  as  he  put  it,  and  had 
taken  me  up  on  the  bridge,  and  had  shown  me 
how  to  take  an  observation  and  how  to  steer 
— he  let  me  steer  all  by  myself  for  more  than 
a  mile  and  I  didn't  run  the  ship  into  anything, 
perhaps  because  there  wasn't  anything  within 
five  hundred  miles  to  run  into— I  went  down 
on  deck  again,  hoping  that  maybe  Diana  had 
got  well  enough  to  come  out,  but  she  hadn't. 

354 


AT  SEA 

She  isn't  violently  ill,  but  she's  the  most  en- 
tirely, hopelessly,  seasick  person  I've  seen  yet. 
She — well,  never  mind.  She'll  get  well  again, 
and  in  the  meanwhile  I  must  tell  you  about  the 
lady.    She  spoke  to  me  kindly  and  said: 

"  '  As  you  and  I  seem  to  be  the  only  well  pas- 
sengers on  board,  I  think  I'm  entitled  to  a  sea 
acquaintance  with  you.  Miss  Dorothy.  You 
know  sea  acquaintances  carry  no  obligations 
with  them  beyond  the  voyage,  and  so  no  matter 
how  chummy  we  may  become  out  here  on  the 
ocean  you  needn't  even  bow  to  me  if  we  meet 
again  on  shore.'  She  seemed  so  altogether  nice 
that  I  told  her  I  wouldn't  have  a  mere  sea  ac- 
quaintance with  her,  but  would  get  acquainted 
with  her  '  for  truly,'  as  the  children  say.  She 
seemed  glad  when  I  said  that,  and  we  talked 
for  two  hours  or  more,  after  which  we  went 
to  luncheon  and  sat  side  by  side — as  everybody 
else  is  seasick  we  had  the  table  all  to  ourselves 
and  didn't  need  to  mind  whose  chairs  we  sat  in. 

"  Well,  she  is  a  strangely  fascinating  person, 
and  the  more  I  know  of  her  the  more  she  fas- 
cinates me.  Sometimes  she  seems  as  young 
as  I  myself  am ;  sometimes  she  seems  very  old. 
She  is  tall  and  what  I  call  willowy.  That  is 
to  say  she  bends  as  easily  in  any  direction  as  a 
willow  wand  could,  and  with  as  much  of  grace. 

355 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

Indeed  grace  is  her  dominant  characteristic,  as 
I  discovered  when  she  danced  a  Spanish  fan- 
dango to  my  playing — ^just  all  to  ourselves  you 
know,  behind  the  deck  house.  She  knows 
everybody  worth  knowing,  too — all  the  editors 
and  artists  and  actors  and  singers  and  pianists 
and  people  in  society  that  I  have  met,  and  a 
great  many  others  that  I  haven^t  met  at  all. 
And  she  really  does  know  them,  too,  for  one 
day  in  her  cabin  I  saw  a  great  album  of  hers, 
and  when  she  saw  I  was  interested  in  it  she 
bade  me  take  it  on  deck,  saying  that  perhaps  it 
might  amuse  me  during  the  hour  she  must  give 
to  sleep.  And  when  I  read  it,  I  found  it  full 
of  charming  things  in  prose  and  verse,  all  ad- 
dressed to  her,  and  all  signed  by  great  people, 
or  nearly  all.  She  told  me  afterwards  that  she 
valued  the  other  things  most — the  things  signed 
by  people  whose  names  meant  nothing  to  me. 
*  For  those,'  she  said,  '  are  my  real  friends. 
The  rest — well,  no  matter.  They  are  profes- 
sionals, and  they  do  such  things  well.'  I  don't 
just  know  what  she  meant  by  that,  but  I  have 
a  suspicion  that  she  loves  truth  better  than 
anything  else,  and  that  she  doesn't  think  dis- 
tinguished people  always  tell  the  truth  when 
they  write  in  albums.  At  any  rate  when  I  asked 
her  if  I  might  write  and  sign  a  little  sentiment 


AT  SEA 

in  her  album,  she  said,  with  more  of  emotion 
than  the  occasion  seemed  to  call  for :  *  Not  in 
that  book,  my  child !  Not  as  a  tag  to  all  those 
people.  If  you  will  write  me  three  or  four  lines 
of  your  own  on  a  simple  sheet  of  paper  and 
sign  it,  I'll  have  it  sumptuously  bound  when  I 
get  to  Paris,  in  a  book  all  to  itself,  and  nobody 
else  shall  ever  write  a  line  to  go  with  it  while  I 
live.* 

"  Wasn't  it  curious  ?  And  especially  when 
you  reflect  how  many  distinguished  people  she 
knows!  But  she  brought  me  a  sheet  of  very 
fine  paper  that  afternoon,  and  said :  *  I  don't 
want  you  to  write  now.  I  don't  want  you  to 
write  till  our  voyage  is  nearly  over.  Then  I 
want  you  to  write  the  truth  as  to  your  feeling 
for  me.  No  matter  what  it  is,  I  want  it  to  be 
the  truth,  so  that  I  may  keep  it  always.'  I  took 
the  sheet  and  wrote  on  it,  '  I  wish  you  were  my 
mother.^  That  was  the  truth.  I  do  wish  every 
hour  that  this  woman  were  my  mother.  But 
she  refused  to  read  what  I  had  written,  saying : 
*  I  will  keep  it,  child,  unread  until  the  end  of 
the  voyage.  Then  I'll  give  it  back  to  you  if  you 
wish,  and  you  shall  write  again  whatever  you 
are  prompted  to  write,  be  it  this  or  something 
quite  different.' 

"  Curiously  enough,  her  name  is  in  effect  the 

357 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

same  as  my  own,  translated  into  French.  She 
is  Madame  Le  Sud.  That  means  Mrs.  South, 
of  course,  and  when  I  called  her  attention  to 
the  fact,  she  said :  *  perhaps  that  may  suggest 
an  additional  bond  of  affection  between  us.'  '* 

Several  days  passed  before  Dorothy  resumed 
her  writing. 

"  I  haven't  added  a  line  to  my  letter  for  two 
or  three  days  past.  That's  because  I  have  been 
so  busy  learning  to  know  and  love  Madame  Le 
Sud.  She  is  the  very  sweetest  and  most  charm- 
ing woman  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  She  is  a 
trifle  less  than  forty — ^just  old  enough  I  tell  her, 
to  be  my  mother  if  it  had  happened  in  that 
way.  Then  she  asked  me  about  my  real  mother 
and  I  couldn't  tell  her  anything.  I  couldn't  even 
tell  when  she  died,  or  what  her  name  had  been 
or  anything  about  her.  Isn't  it  a  strange  thing, 
Cousin  Arthur,  that  nobody  has  ever  told  me 
anything  about  my  mother?  It  makes  me 
ashamed  when  I  think  of  it,  and  still  more 
ashamed  when  I  remember  that  I  never  asked 
anything  about  her,  except  once.  That  time  I 
asked  my  father  some  question  and  he  answered 
only  by  quickly  rising  and  going  out  to  mount 
his  horse  and  ride  away  all  alone.  That  is  the 
way  he  always  did  when  things  distressed  him, 
and  as  I  didn't  want  to  distress  him  I  never 

358 


AT  SEA 

asked  him  anything  more  about  my  mother. 
But  why  haven't  I  been  told  about  her?  Was 
she  bad  ?  And  is  that  why  everybody  has  been 
so  anxious  about  me,  fearing  that  I  might  be 
bad  ?  Even  if  that  were  so  they  ought  to  have 
told  me  about  my  mother,  especially  after  I 
began  to  grow  up  and  know  how  to  stand 
things  bravely.  May  be  when  I  was  too  little 
to  understand  it  was  better  to  keep  silent.  But 
when  I  grew  older  there  was  no  excuse  for  not 
telling  me  the  truth.  I  don't  think  there  ever 
is  any  excuse  for  that.  The  truth  is  the  only 
thing  in  the  world  that  a  sane  person  ought 
to  love.  I'm  only  seventeen  years  old,  but  I'm 
old  enough  to  have  found  out  that  much,  and 
I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  quite  forgive  those 
who  have  shut  out  from  me  the  truth  about 
my  mother.  You,  Cousin  Arthur,  haven't  had 
any  hand  in  that.  I  never  asked  you,  but  I 
know.  If  you  had  known  about  my  mother 
you'd  have  told  me.  You  could  not  have  helped 
it.  The  only  limitation  to  your  ability  that  I 
ever  discovered  is  your  utter  inability  to  tell 
lies.  If  you  tried  to  do  that  you'd  make  such 
a  wretched  failure  of  the  attempt  that  the  truth 
would  come  out  in  spite  of  you.  So,  of  course, 
you  are  as  ignorant  as  I  am  about  my  mother. 
**  But  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  Madame  Le 

359 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

Sud.  To  me  she  is  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  the  world,  and  yet  most  people  would  call 
her  hideously  ugly.  Indeed,  I've  heard  people 
on  the  ship  call  her  that  way,  for  they're  be- 
ginning at  last  to  come  out  on  deck  and  try 
to  get  well.  She  has  a  terribly  disfiguring 
scar.  It  begins  in  her  hair  and  extends  down 
over  her  left  eye  which  it  has  put  out,  and  down 
her  cheek  by  the  side  of  her  nose,  almost,  but 
not  quite  to  her  upper  lip.  The  scar  is  very 
ugly,  of  course,  but  the  woman  is  altogether 
beautiful.  She  impresses  me  as  wonderfully 
fine  and  fragile — delicate  in  the  same  way  that 
a  piece  of  old  Sevres  china  is.  She  plays  the 
violin  divinely.  She  wouldn't  play  for  me  at 
first,  and  she  has  since  confessed  that  she  feared 
to  make  me  afraid  to  play  for  her.  *  For  I  am 
a  professional  musician,'  she  said,  *  or  rather  I 
was,  till  I  got  this  disfiguring  scar.  After  that 
how  could  I  present  myself  to  an  audience  ? ' 
Then  she  told  me  how  she  got  the  scar.  She 
was  celebrating  something  or  other  with  a  com- 
pany of  friends.  They  drank  champagne  too 
freely,  and  one  of  them,  taking  from  Madame 
Le  Sud's  mantelpiece  a  perfume  bottle,  play- 
fully emptied  its  contents  on  her  head.  It  was 
a  perfume  bottle,  but  it  held  nitric  acid  which 
somebody  had  been  using  medicinally.    In  an 

•^60 


AT  SEA 

instant  the  mischief  was  done  and  Madame  L6 
Sud's  career  as  a  famous  musician  was  ended 
forever. 

"  When  she  got  well  she  was  very  poor,  haV^ 
ing  spent  all  her  money  during  her  illness.  A 
manager  came  to  her  and  wanted  her  to  go  on 
as  '  the  veiled  violinist/  he  pretending  that  she 
was  some  woman  of  distinguished  family  and 
high  social  position  whose  love  of  music 
tempted  her  to  exercise  her  skill  upon  the  stage, 
but  whose  social  position  forbade  her  to  show 
her  face  or  reveal  her  name.  He  offered  her 
large  sums  if  she  would  do  this,  but  she  re- 
fused to  make  herself  a  party  to  such  a  decep- 
tion. She  secured  employment,  as  she  puts  it, 
in  a  much  humbler  capacity  which  enables  her 
to  turn  her  artistic  taste  to  account  in  earning 
a  living,  and  it  is  in  connection  with  this  em- 
ployment that  she  is  now  on  her  way  to  Paris. 
She  did  not  tell  me  what  her  employment  is, 
and  of  course  I  did  not  ask  her.  But  now  that 
I  have  learned  something  of  her  misfortunes, 
and  have  seen  how  bravely  she  bears  them,  I 
love  her  better  than  ever. 

"  Diana  has  come  upon  deck  at  last,  '  dressed 
and  in  her  right  mind.'  She  is  very  proud  of 
having  been  *  seasick  jes'  like  white  folks.'  She 
so  far  asserts  her  authority  as  to  order  Ed- 

361 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

monia — who  is  quite  herself  again — and  me  to 
array  ourselves  in  some  special  gowns  of  her 
personal  selection  for  the  captain's  dinner  to- 
day. It  is  to  be  a  notable  affair  and  Madame 
Le  Sud  is  to  play  a  violin  solo.  They  asked  me 
to  play  also,  but  I  refused,  till  Madame  Le  Sud 
asked  me  to  give  *  Home,  Sweet  Home/  with 
her  to  play  second  violin.  Think  of  it!  This 
wonderful  musical  artist  volunteering  to  '  play 
second  fiddle '  to  a  novice  like  me !  But  she 
insists  upon  liking  my  rendering  of  the  dear 
old  melody  and  she  has  taken  the  trouble  to 
compose  a  special  second  part,  which,  she  gen- 
erously says,  *  will  bring  out  the  beauty  '  of  my 
performance. 

"We  expect  to  make  land  during  tonight, 
and  by  day  after  tc>morrow,  I'll  mail  this  letter 
at  Liverpool." 


362 


XXXI 

THE  VIEWS  AND  MOODS  OF  ARTHUR  BRENT 

l^Fy^HEN   Dorothy  had    gone   Arthur 
1/1/  Brent  felt  a  double  necessity  for 

^  ^  diligence  in  the  ordering  of  planta- 

tion affairs.  He  realized  for  the  first  time  what 
he  had  done  in  thus  sending  Dorothy  away. 
For  the  first  time  he  began  to  understand  his 
own  condition  of  mind  and  the  extent  to  which 
this  woman  had  become  a  necessity  to  his  life. 
Quite  naturally,  too,  her  absence  and  the  loss 
of  his  daily  association  with  her  served  to  de- 
press him,  as  nothing  else  had  ever  done  before. 
The  sensation  of  needing  some  one  was  wholly 
novel  to  him,  and  by  no'  means  agreeable. 
*'  What  if  I  should  never  have  her  with  me 
again — never  as  my  Dorothy?  '^  he  reflected. 
"  That  may  very  easily  happen.  In  fact  I  sent 
her  away  in  order  that  it  might  happen,  if  it 
would.  Her  affection  for  me  is  still  quite  that 
of  a  child  for  one  much  older  than  herself. 
Edmonia  does  not  so  regard  it,  but  perhaps  she 
is  wrong.    Perhaps  her  conviction  that  Dor- 

363 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

othy  the  woman  loves  me  even  more  than  Dor- 
othy the  child  ever  did,  and  that  her  love  will 
survive  acquaintance  with  other  and  more  at- 
tractive men,  and  other  and  more  attractive 
ways  of  life,  is  bom  only  of  her  eager  desire  to 
have  that  come  about.  A  year's  absence  will 
not  make  Dorothy  forget  me  or  even  love  me 
less  than  she  does  now.  But  how  much  does 
she  love  me  now,  in  very  truth?  May  it  not 
happen  that  when  she  returns  a  year  hence  she 
will  have  given  her  woman's  heart  to  some 
other,  bringing  back  to  me  only  the  old,  child 
love  unchanged?  I  must  be  prepared  for  that 
at  all  events.  I  must  school  myself  to  think 
of  it  as  a  probability  without  the  distress  of 
mind  it  gives  me  now.  And  I  must  be  ready, 
when  it  happens,  to  go  away  from  here  at  once 
and  take  up  again  my  life  of  strenuous  en- 
deavor and  absorbing  study.  I  mustn't  let  this 
thing  ruin  me  as  it  might  some  weakling  in 
character." 

In  order  that  he  might  be  ready  thus  to  leave 
Virginia  when  the  time  should  come,  rejoic- 
ing instead  of  grieving  over  Dorothy's  good 
fortune  in  finding  some  fitter  life  than  his  to 
share,  Arthur  knew  that  he  must  this  year  dis- 
charge the  last  dollar  of  debt  that  rested 
Upon  the  Wyanoke  estate.    He  must  be  a  free 

364 


MOODS  OF  ARTHUR  BRENT 

man  on  Dorothy's  return — free  to  reenter  the 
world  of  scientific  work,  free  to  make  and  keep 
himself  master  of  his  own  mind,  as  he  had 
always  been  until  this  strange  thing  had  come 
over  his  life. 

He  thus  set  himself  two  tasks,  one  of  which 
he  might  perhaps  fulfil  by  hard  work  and  dis- 
creet management.  The  other  promised  to  be 
greatly  more  difficult.  He  made  a  very  bad 
beginning  at  it  by  sitting  up  late  at  night  to 
read  and  ponder  Dorothy's  letters,  to  question 
them  as  to  the  future,  to  study  every  indication 
of  character  or  impulse,  or  temporary  mood  of 
mind  they  might  give. 

With  the  debt-paying  problem  he  got  on 
much  better.  He  had  now  a  whole  year's  ac- 
cumulated income  from  his  annuity,  and  he  de- 
voted all  of  it  at  once  to  the  lightening  of  this 
burden.  He  studied  markets  as  if  they  had 
been  problems  in  physics,  and  guided  himself 
in  his  planting  by  the  results  of  these  studies. 
He  had  sold  apples  and  bacon  and  sweet  po- 
tatoes the  year  before,  as  we  know,  with  results 
that  encouraged  him  to  go  further  in  the  direc- 
tion of  "  Yankee  farming."  This  year  he 
planted  large  areas  in  watermelons  and  other 
large  areas  in  other  edible  things  that  the  people 
of  the  cities  want,  but  which  no  south  side  Vir- 

36s 


DOROTHr  SOUTiT 

ginia  planter  had  ever  thought  of  growing  fof 
sale. 

He  was  laughed  at  while  doing  all  this,  and 
envied  when  the  results  of  it  appeared. 

He  deliberately  implicated  Dorothy  in  these 
his  misdeeds,  also,  doing  on  her  plantation  pre- 
cisely as  he  did  on  his  own,  so  that  when  late 
in  the  autumn  he  gave  account  of  his  steward- 
ship he  was  able  to  inform  the  court,  to  its 
astonishment  and  to  that  of  the  entire  com- 
munity, that  he  had  discharged  every  dollar  of 
debt  that  had  rested  upon  his  ward's  estate. 
The  judge  applauded  such  management  of  a 
trust  estate,  and  Arthur  Brent's  neighbors  won- 
dered. Some  of  them  saw  in  his  success  ground 
of  approval  of  "  Yankee  farming  " ;  all  of  them 
conceived  a  new  respect  for  the  ability  of  a  man 
who  had  thus,  in  so  brief  a  time,  freed  two  old 
estates  from  the  hereditary  debts  that  had  been 
accumulating  for  slow  generations. 

Arthur  had  been  additionally  spurred  and 
stimulated  to  the  accomplishment  of  this  end, 
by  the  forebodings  of  evil  in  connection  with 
national  politics  which  had  gravely  haunted 
him  throughout  the  year. 

In  May  the  Republican  party  had  nominated 
Mr.  Lincoln,  and  about  the  same  time  the 
Democrats  made  his  election  a  practical  cer- 

366 


MOODS  OF  ARTHUR  BRENT 

tainty.  There  was  clearly  a  heavy  majority  oi 
the  people  opposed  to  his  election,  but  the  divis- 
ion of  that  opposition  into  three  hostile  camps 
with  three  rival  candidates,  rendered  Republi- 
can success  a  foregone  conclusion.  By  some 
at  least  of  the  politicians  the  division  was  de- 
liberately intended  to  produce  that  result,  while 
the  great  mass  of  the  people  opposed  to  Mr. 
Lincoln  and  seriously  fearing  the  consequences 
of  his  election,  deeply  deplored  the  condition 
thus  brought  about 

The  Republican  party  at  that  time  existed 
only  at  the  North.  For  the  first  time  in  history 
the  election  threatened  the  country  with  the 
choice  oi  a  president  by  an  exclusively  sectional 
vote,  and  in  opposition  to  the  will  of  the  ma- 
jority of  the  people.  On  the  popular  vote,  in 
fact,  Mr.  Lincoln  was  in  a  minority  of  nearly 
a  million,  and  every  electoral  vote  cast  for  him 
came  from  the  northern  states.  In  most  of  the 
southern  states  indeed  there  was  no  canvass 
made  for  him,  no  electoral  nominations  pre- 
sented in  his  behalf. 

Added  to  this  was  the  fact  that  the  one  point 
on  which  his  party  was  agreed,  the  one  bond 
of  opinion  that  held  it  together  for  political 
action,  the  one  impulse  held  in  common  by  all 
its  adherents,  was  hostility  to  slavery,  which 

367 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

the  men  of  the  South  construed  to  mean  hos- 
tility— intense  and  implacable — to  the  states  in 
which  that  institution  existed  and  even  to  the 
people  of  those  states. 

The  "  platform  "  on  which  Mr.  Lincoln  was 
nominated,  did  indeed  protest,  as  he  had  him- 
self done  in  many  public  utterances,  that  this 
was  a  misinterpretation  of  attitude  and  pur- 
pose ;  that  the  party  disclaimed  all  intent  to  in- 
terfere with  slavery  in  the  slave  states;  that 
it  held  firmly  to  the  right  of  each  state  to  regu- 
late that  matter  for  itself,  and  repudiated  the 
assumption  of  any  power  on  the  part  of  the 
Federal  government  to  control  the  action  of  the 
several  states  or  in  any  wise  to  legislate  for 
them  on  this  subject. 

But  these  pledges  were  taken  at  the  South 
to  mean  no  more  than  a  desire  to  secure  united 
action  in  an  election.  The  party  proclaimed 
its  purpose,  while  letting  slavery  alone  in  the 
states,  to  forbid  its  extension  to  the  new  terri- 
tories. This  alone  was  deemed  a  program  of 
injustice  by  that  very  active  group  of  Southern 
men  who,  repudiating  the  teachings  of  Jeffer- 
son, and  Wythe  and  Henry  Clay,  had  come  to 
believe  in  African  slavery  as  a  thing  right  in 
itself,  a  necessity  of  the  South,  a  labor  system  to 
be  upheld  and  defended  and  extended,  upon  its 

368 


MOODS  OF  ARTHUR  BRENT 

own  merits.  These  men  contended  that  the  new 
territories  were  the  common  and  equal  pos- 
session of  all  the  people;  that  any  attempt  by 
Federal  authority  to  deny  to  the  states  there- 
after to  be  formed  out  of  those  territories,  the 
right  to  determine  for  themselves  whether  they 
would  permit  or  forbid  slavery,  was  a  wrong  to 
the  South  which  had  contributed  of  its  blood 
and  treasure  even  more  largely  than  the  North 
had  done  to  their  acquisition.  They  further 
contended  that  any  such  legislation  would  of 
necessity  involve  an  assumption  of  Federal  au- 
thority to  control  states  in  advance  of  their  for- 
mation,— an  assumption  which  might  easily  be 
construed  to  authorize  a  like  Federal  control 
of  states  already  existing,  including  those  that 
had  helped  to  create  the  Union. 

All  this  Arthur  Brent  contemplated  with 
foreboding  from  the  first.  He  anticipated  Mr. 
Lincoln's  election  from  the  beginning  of  the 
absurd  campaign.  And  while  he  could  not  at 
all  agree  with  those  who  were  prepared  to  see 
in  that  event  an  occasion  for  secession  and  revo- 
lution, he  foreboded  those  calamities  as  results 
likely  in  fact  to  follow.  And  even  should  a 
kindly  fate  avert  them  for  a  time,  he  saw  clearly 
that  the  alignment  of  parties  in  the  nation  upon 
sectional  issues  must  be  productive  of  new  and 

369 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

undreamed  of  irritations,  full  of  threatening  to 
the  peace  of  the  Republic. 

No  more  than  any  of  his  neighbors  could  he 
forecast  the  events  of  the  next  few  years. 
"  But,"  he  wrote  to  Dorothy  in  the  autumn 
"  I  see  that  the  election  of  Mr.  Lincoln  is  now 
a  certainty;  I  foresee  that  it  will  lead  to  a  de- 
termined movement  in  the  South  in  favor  of 
secession  and  the  dissolution  of  the  Federal 
Union.  It  ought  to  be  possible,  if  that  must 
come,  to  arrange  it  on  a  basis  of  peaceable 
agreement  to  disagree — the  Southern  States 
assuming  all  responsibility  for  slavery  till  they 
can  rid  themselves  of  it  with  safety  to  society, 
and  the  Northern  people  washing  their  hands 
once  for  all  of  an  iniquity  from  which  they  have 
derived  the  major  part  of  the  profit.  This  they 
did,  particularly  during  those  years  after  1808, 
in  which  the  African  slave  trade  was  pro- 
hibited by  law,  but  was  carried  on  by  New 
England  ship  masters  and  New  England  mer- 
chants with  so  great  a  profit  that  Justice  Joseph 
Story  of  the  United  States  supreme  court, 
though  himself  a  New  Englander,  was  de- 
nounced by  the  New  England  press  and  even 
threatened  with  a  violent  ejection  from  the 
bench,  because  he  sought  to  prevent  and  punish 
it,  in  obedience  to  the  national  statute. 


MOODS  OF  ARTHUR  BRENT 

"  But  I  am  wandering  from  my  theme,"  he 
continued.  "  I  wanted  to  say  that  while  I  think 
there  is  no  real  occasion  for  a  disruption  of  the 
Union,  I  gravely  fear  that  it  is  coming.  And 
while  I  think  it  should  be  possible  to  accom- 
plish it  peaceably  I  do  not  believe  it  will  be 
done  in  that  way.  There  are  too  many  hot 
heads  on  both  sides,  for  that.  There  is  too 
much  gunpowder  lying  around,  and  there  will 
be  too  many  sparks  flying  about.  Listen,  Dor- 
othy !  I  foresee  that  Mr.  Lincoln  will  be  elected 
in  November.  I  anticipate  an  almost  imme- 
diate attempt  on  the  part  of  the  cotton  states 
to  dissolve  the  Union  by  secession.  I  shall  do 
everything  I  can  to  help  other  sober  minded 
Virginians  to  keep  Virginia  out  of  this  move- 
ment, and  if  Virginia  can  be  kept  out  of  it,  the 
other  border  states  will  accept  her  action  as  con- 
trolling, and  they  too  will  stay  out  of  the  revo- 
lutionary enterprise.  In  that  case  the  states 
farther  South  will  be  amenable  to  reason,  and 
if  there  is  reason  and  discretion  exercised  at 
Washington  and  in  the  North,  some  means 
may  possibly  be  found  for  adjusting  the  matter 
— Virginia  and  Kentucky  perhaps  acting  suc- 
cessfully as  mediators.  But  I  tell  you  frankly, 
I  do  not  expect  success  in  the  program  to  which 
I  intend  to  devote  all  my  labors  and  all  I  have 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

of  influence.  I  look  to  see  Virginia  drawn  into 
the  conflict.  I  look  for  war  on  a  scale  far  more 
stupendous  than  any  this  country  has  ever  seen. 

*'  I  can  no  more  foresee  what  the  result  of 
such  a  war  will  be  than  you  can — so  far  at 
least  as  military  operations  are  concerned. 
But  some  of  the  results  I  think  I  do  see  very 
clearly.  Virginia  will  be  the  battle-ground,  and 
Virginia  will  be  desolated  as  few  lands  have 
ever  been  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Another 
thing,  Dorothy.  If  this  war  comes,  as  I  fear 
it  will,  it  will  make  an  end  of  African  slavery 
in  this  country.  For  if  we  of  the  South  are 
beaten  in  the  conflict  of  arms,  the  complete  ex- 
tinction of  slavery  will  be  decreed  as  a  part  of 
the  penalty  of  war  and  the  price  of  peace.  If 
we  are  successful,  we  shall  have  set  up  a  Canada 
at  our  very  doors.  The  Ohio  and  the  Potomac 
will  become  a  border  beyond  which  every  es- 
caping negro  will  be  absolutely  free,  and 
across  which  every  conceivable  influence  will 
be  brought  to  bear  upon  the  negroes  to  induce 
them  to  run  away.  Under  such  conditions  the 
institution  must  become  an  intolerable  as  well 
as  an  unprofitable  annoyance,  and  it  will 
speedily  disappear. 

"  Now  I  come  to  what  I  set  out  to  say.  Be- 
fore election  day  this  present  fall  I  shall  have 


MOODS  OF  ARTHUR  BRENT 

paid  off  every  dollar  of  the  debts  that  rest  upon 
Pocahontas  and  Wyanoke.  You  and  I  will  be 
free,  at  least,  from  that  source  of  embarrass- 
ment, and  whatever  the  military  or  political,  or 
legal  or  social  results  of  the  war  may  be,  you 
and  I  will  be  owners  of  land  that  is  subject  to 
no  claim  of  any  kind  against  us.  I  have  griev- 
ously compromised  your  dignity  as  well  as  my 
own  in  my  efforts  to  bring  this  about,  but  you 
are  not  held  responsible  for  my  *  Yankee  do- 
ings,' at  Pocahontas,  and  as  for  me,  I  am  not 
thin-skinned  in  such  matters.  Fd  far  rather 
be  laughed  at  for  paying  debts  in  undignified 
ways  than  be  dunned  for  debts  that  I  cannot 
pay." 

This  letter  reached  Dorothy  in  Paris,  on  her 
return  through  Switzerland,  from  an  Italian 
journey,  undertaken  in  the  early  summer  be- 
fore the  danger  of  Roman  fever  should  be 
threatening.  Had  such  a  letter  come  to  her  a 
few  months  earlier,  her  response  to  it  would 
have  been  an  utterly  submissive  assent  to  all 
that  her  guardian  had  done,  with  perhaps  a 
wondering  question  or  two  as  to  why  he  should 
feel  it  necessary  to  ask  her  consent  to  anything 
he  might  be  minded  to  do,  or  even  to  tell  her 
what  he  had  done.  But  Dorothy  had  grown 
steadily  more  reserved  in  her  writing  to  him, 

373 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

as  experience  had  slowly  but  surely  awakened 
womanly  consciousness  in  her  soul.  She  was 
still  as  loyally  devoted  as  ever  to  Arthur,  but 
she  shrank  now  as  she  had  not  been  used  to  do, 
from  too  candid  an  expression  of  her  devotion. 
The  child  had  completely  given  place  to  the 
woman  in  her  nature  and  the  woman  was  far 
less  ready  than  the  child  had  been  to  reveal  her 
feelings.  A  succession  of  suitors  for  her  hand 
had  taught  Dorothy  to  think  of  herself  as  a 
woman  bound  to  maintain  a  certain  reserve  in 
her  intercourse  with  men.  They  had  awakened 
in  her  a  consciousness  of  the  fact,  of  which  she 
had  scarcely  even  thought  in  the  old,  childish 
days,  that  Arthur  Brent  was  a  young  man  and 
Dorothy  South  a  young  woman,  and  that  it 
would  ill  become  Dorothy  South  to  reveal  her- 
self too  frankly  to  this  young  man.  She  did 
not  quite  know  what  there  was  in  her  mind  to 
reveal  or  to  withhold  from  revelation,  but  she 
instinctively  felt  the  necessity  strong  upon  her 
to  guard  herself  against  her  own  impulsive 
truthfulness.  She  had  no  more  notion  that  she 
had  dared  give  her  woman's  love  to  Arthur  un- 
asked, than  she  had  that  he — who  had  never 
asked  for  it — desired  her  love.  He  remained 
to  her  in  fact  the  enormously  superior  being 
that  she  had  always  held  him  to  be,  but  she 

374 


MOODS  OF  ARTHUR  BRENT 

found  herself  blushing  sometimes  when  she  re* 
membered  the  utter  abandon  with  which  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  lay  bare  her  innermost 
thoughts  and  sentiments,  her  very  soul,  indeed, 
to  his  scrutiny. 

She  knew  of  no  reason  why  she  should  now 
alter  her  attitude  or  her  demeanor  towards  him, 
and  she  resolutely  determined  that  she  would 
not  in  the  least  change  either,  yet  the  letter  she 
wrote  to  him  on  this  occasion  was  altogether 
unlike  that  which  she  would  have  written  a 
few  months  earlier  upon  a  like  occasion.  She 
expressed  her  approval  of  all  that  he  had  done 
with  respect  to  her  estate,  where  in  like  case  a 
few  months  earlier  she  would  have  asked  him 
wonderingly  what  she  had  to  do  with  things 
planned  and  accomplished  by  him.  She  ex- 
pressed acquiescence  as  one  might  who  has  the 
right  to  approve  or  to  criticise,  where  before 
she  would  have  concerned  herself  only  with 
rejoicings  that  her  guardian  had  got  things  as 
he  wanted  them,  in  accordance  with  his  un- 
questioned and  unquestionable  right  to  have 
everything  as  he  wanted  it  to  be  in  a  world 
quite  unworthy  of  him. 

In  brief,  Dorothy's  letter  depressed  Arthur 
Brent  almost  unendurably.  Because  he  missed 
something  from  it  that  long  use  had  taught  hina 

375 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

to  expect  in  all  her  utterances  to  him,  he  read 
into  it  much  of  coldness,  alienation,  indiffer- 
ence, which  it  did  not  contain.  He  sat  up  all 
night,  torturing  himself  with  doubts  for  which 
a  frequent  reperusal  of  the  letter  furnished  him 
no  shadow  of  justification ;  and  when  the  gray 
morning  came  he  ordered  his  horse,  meaning 
to  ride  purposely  nowhither.  But  when  the 
horse  was  brought,  a  new  and  overpowering 
sense  of  Dorothy's  absence  and  perhaps  her 
alienation,  came  over  him.  He  remembered 
vividly  every  detail  of  that  first  morning's  ride 
he  had  had  with  her,  and  instinctively  he  copied 
her  proceeding  on  that  occasion.  Drawing 
forth  his  handkerchief  he  rubbed  the  animal's 
flanks  and  rumps  with  it  to  its  soiling. 

"  I'll  not  ride  this  morning,  Ben,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  go  back  to  the  house  and  write  a  letter  to 
your  Mis'  Dorothy  and  I'll  enclose  that  hand- 
kerchief for  her  inspection." 


376 


XXXII 

THE  SHADOW  FALLS 

W"  "W^J^YY^  the  autumn  came  that  shadow 
l/t/  over    the    land    which    Arthur 

^  ^  Brent   had    so   greatly    dreaded. 

Mr.  Lincoln's  election  was  quickly  succeeded 
by  the  secession  of  South  Carolina.  One  after 
another  the  far  Southern  States  followed,  and 
presently  the  seceding  states  allied  themselves 
in  a  new  confederacy. 

The  whole  country  was  in  a  ferment.  The 
founders  of  the  Union  had  made  no  provision 
whatever  for  such  a  state  of  things  as  this,  and 
even  the  wisest  men  were  at  a  loss  to  say  what 
ought  to  be  done  or  what  could  be  done. 
There  seemed  to  be  nowhere  any  power 
or  authority  adequate  to  deal  with  the 
situation  in  one  way  or  in  another.  All 
was  chaos  in  the  coolest  minds  while  the  hot- 
heads on  either  side  were  daily  making  matters 
worse  by  their  intemperate  utterances  and  by 
the  unyielding  arrogance  of  their  attitude. 

377 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

In  the  meantime  the  administration  at  Wash- 
ington seemed  intent  only  upon  preventing  the 
outbreak  of  open  war  until  its  term  should  end 
on  the  fourth  of  March,  1861,  while  those  into 
whose  hands  the  government  must  pass  on  that 
date  had  not  only  no  authority  to  act  but  no 
privilege  even  of  advising. 

It  seemed  fortunate  at  the  time,  that  Virginia 
refused  to  join  in  the  secession  movement.  Her 
refusal  and  her  commanding  influence  over  the 
other  border  states  seemed  for  a  time  to  pro- 
vide an  opportunity  for  wise  counsels  to  assert 
themselves.  There  were  radical  secessionists 
in  Virginia  and  uncompromising  opponents  of 
secession  on  any  terms.  But  the  attitude  of 
the  great  majority  of  Virginians,  as  was  shown 
in  the  election  of  a  constitutional  convention 
on  the  fourth  of  February,  was  one  of  earnest- 
ness for  peace  and  reconciliation  and  the  pres- 
ervation of  the  Federal  Union. 

The  Virginians  believed  firmly  in  the  con- 
stitutional right  of  any  state  to  withdraw  from 
the  Union,  but  the  majority  among  them  saw  in 
Mr.  Lincoln's  election  no  proper  occasion  for 
the  exercise  of  that  right.  They  regarded  the 
course  of  the  cotton  states  in  withdrawing  from 
the  Union  as  one  strictly  within  their  right, 
but  as  utterly  unwise  and  unnecessary.    On  the 

378 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS 

other  hand  they  firmly  denied  the  right  of  the 
national  government  to  coerce  the  seceding 
states  or  in  any  manner  to  make  war  upon 
them. 

Arthur  Brent  was  an  uncompromising  be- 
liever in  the  right  of  a  state  to  secede,  and 
equally  an  uncompromising  opponent  of  seces- 
sion as  a  policy.  That  part  of  Virginia  in 
which  he  lived  was  divided  in  opinion  and  sen- 
timent, with  a  distinct  preponderance  of  opin- 
ion in  behalf  of  secession.  But  when  the  call 
came  for  the  election  of  a  constitutional  con- 
vention to  decide  upon  Virginia's  course  the 
secessionists  of  his  district  were  represented  by 
two  rival  candidates,  both  fiercely  favoring 
secession.  The  only  discoverable  difference  in 
their  views  was  that  one  of  them  wanted  the 
convention  to  adopt  the  ordinance  of  secession 
"  before  breakfast  on  the  day  of  its  first  assem- 
bling," while  the  other  contended  that  it  would 
be  more  consonant  with  the  dignity  of  the  state 
to  have  muffins  and  coffee  first. 

Neither  of  these  candidates  was  a  person  of 
conspicuous  influence  in  the  community. 
Neither  was  a  man  of  large  ability  or  ripe  ex- 
perience or  commanding  social  position — the 
last  counting  for  much  in  Virginia  in  those 
days  when  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  ballot 

379 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

in  that  state,  and  when  every  man  must  go  to 
the  polls  and  openly  proclaim  his  vote. 

Under  these  circumstances  a  number  of  the 
conservative  men  of  the  district  got  together 
and  decided  to  make  Arthur  Brent  a  candidate. 
It  was  certain  that  the  secession  vote  would  be 
in  the  majority  in  the  district,  but  if  it  were 
divided  between  the  two  rival  candidates,  as  it 
was  certain  to  be,  these  gentlemen  were  not 
without  hope  that  their  candidate  might  secure 
a  plurality  and  be  elected. 

Arthur  strenuously  objected  to  the  program 
so  far  at  least  as  it  concerned  his  own  candi- 
dacy. He  had  a  pronounced  distaste  for  poli- 
tics and  public  life,  and  he  stoutly  argued  that 
some  one  who  had  lived  all  his  life  in  that  com- 
munity would  be  better  able  than  he  to  win  all 
there  was  of  conservatism  to  his  support.  He 
entreated  these  his  friends  to  adopt  that  course. 
It  was  significant  of  the  high  place  he  had  won 
in  the  estimation  of  the  community's  best,  that 
they  refused  to  listen  to  his  protest,  and,  by  a 
proclamation  over  their  own  signatures,  an- 
nounced him  as  their  candidate  and  urged  all 
men  who  sincerely  desired  wise  and  prudent 
counsels  to  prevail  in  a  matter  which  involved 
Virginia's  entire  future,  to  support  him  at  the 
polls. 

380 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS 

Thus  compelled  against  his  will  to  be  a  candi- 
date, Arthur  entered  at  once  upon  a  canvass  of 
ceaseless  activity.  He  did  not  mean  to  be  de- 
feated. He  spoke  every  day  and  many  times 
every  day,  and  better  still  he  talked  constantly 
to  the  groups  of  men  who  surrounded  him, 
setting  forth  his  views  persuasively  and  so  con- 
vincingly that  when  the  polls  closed  on  that 
fateful  fourth  of  February,  it  was  found  that 
Arthur  Brent  had  been  elected  by  a  plurality 
which  amounted  almost  to  a  majority,  to  repre- 
sent his  district  in  that  constitutional  conven- 
tion which  must  decide  Virginia's  commanding 
course,  and  in  large  degree,  perhaps,  determine 
the  final  issue  of  war  or  peace. 

When  the  convention  met  nine  days  later  it 
was  foimd  that  an  overwhelming  majority  of 
the  members  held  views  identical,  or  nearly  so, 
with  those  of  Arthur  Brent.  There  were  a 
very  few  uncompromising  secessionists  in  the 
body,  and  also  a  few  unconditional  Union  men, 
who  declared  their  hostility  to  secession  upon 
any  terms,  at  any  time,  under  any  circum- 
stances. Among  these  unconditional  Union 
men,  curiously  enough  were  two  who  after- 
wards became  notable  fighters  for  the  Southern 
cause — ^namely  Jubal  A.  Early  and  William  C. 
Wickham. 

381 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

But  the  overwhelming  majority  opposed  se- 
cession as  a  mistaken  policy,  uncalled  for  by 
anything  in  the  then  existing  circumstances, 
and  certain  to  precipitate  a  devastating  war; 
while  at  the  same  time  maintaining  the  con- 
stitutional right  of  each  state  to  secede,  and 
holding  themselves  ready  to  vote  for  Virginia's 
secession,  should  the  circumstances  so  change 
as  to  render  that  course  in  their  judgment  ob- 
ligatory upon  the  state  under  the  law  of  honor. 

That  change  occurred  in  the  end,  as  we  shall 
presently  see.  But,  in  the  meantime,  these 
representatives  of  the  Virginia  people  wrought 
with  all  their  might  for  the  maintenance  of 
peace  and  the  preservation  of  the  Union.  They 
counselled  concession  and  sweet  reasonableness, 
on  both  sides.  They  urged  upon  both  the  com- 
manding necessity  of  endeavoring,  in  a  spirit 
of  mutual  forbearance,  to  find  some  basis  of 
adjustment  by  which  that  Union  which  Vir- 
ginia had  done  so  much  to  bring  about,  and 
under  which  the  history  of  the  Republic  had 
been  a  matter  of  universal  pride  both  North 
and  South,  might  be  preserved  and  established 
anew  upon  secure  foundations.  More  impor- 
tant than  all  this  was  the  fact  that  these  repre- 
sentative men  of  Virginia  denied  to  the 
seceding  cotton  states  the  encouragement  of 

382 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS 

Virginia's  sanction  for  their  movement,  the  ab- 
solutely indispensable  moral  and  material  sup- 
port of  the  mother  state. 

For  a  time  there  was  an  encouraging  pros- 
pect of  the  success  of  these  Virginian  efforts. 
Nobody,  North  or  South,  believed  that  the 
cotton  states  would  long  stand  alone  in  their 
determination,  if  Virginia  and  the  other  border 
states  that  looked  to  her  for  guidance — Ken- 
tucky, North  Carolina,  Arkansas,  Tennessee, 
and  Maryland — should  continue  to  hold  aloof. 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Lincoln,  after  his  in- 
auguration, had  a  somewhat  similar  problem  to 
deal  with  at  the  North.  There  was  a  party 
there  clamorous  for  instant  war  with  a  de- 
clared purpose  of  abolishing  slavery.  The 
advocates  of  that  policy  pressed  it  upon  the 
new  president  as  urgently  as  the  extreme 
secessionists  at  the  South  pressed  secession 
upon  Virginia.  Mr.  Lincoln  saw  clearly,  as 
these  his  advisers  did  not,  that  their  policy 
was  utterly  impracticable.  From  the  very  be- 
ginning he  insisted  upon  confining  his  adminis- 
tration's efforts  rigidly  to  the  task  of  preserv- 
ing the  Union  with  the  traditional  rights  of  all 
the  states  unimpaired.  He  saw  clearly  that 
there  were  men  by  hundreds  of  thousands  at 
the  North,  who  would  heart  and  soul  support 

383 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

the.  administration's  efforts  to  preserve  the 
Union,  even  by  war  if  that  should  be  necessary, 
but  who  would  antagonize  by  every  means  in 
their  power  a  war  for  the  extirpation  of  slavery 
at  cost  of  Federal  usurpation  of  control  over 
any  state  in  its  domestic  affairs. 

Accordingly^  Mr.  Lincoln  held  to  his  pur- 
pose. He  would  make  no  attempt  to  interfere 
with  slavery  where  it  constitutionally  existed, 
and  he  would  make  no  direct  effort  to  compel 
seceding  states  to  return  to  the  Union;  but  he 
would  use  whatever  force  he  might  find  neces- 
sary to  repossess  the  forts,  arsenals,  post- 
offices  and  custom  houses  which  the  seceding 
states  had  seized  upon  within  their  borders,  and 
he  would  endeavor  to  enforce  the  Federal  laws 
there. 

But  in  order  to  accomplish  this,  military 
forces  were  necessary,  and  the  government  at 
Washington  did  not  possess  them.  There  was 
only  the  regular  army,  and  it  consisted  of  a 
mere  handful  of  men,  scattered  from  Eastport, 
Maine,  to  San  Diego,  California,  from  St.  Au- 
gustine, Florida  to  Puget's  Sound,  and  charged 
with  the  task — for  which  its  numbers  were 
utterly  inadequate — of  keeping  the  Indians  in 
order  and  proper  subjection.  It  is  doubtful 
that  Mr.  Lincoln  could  have  concentrated  a 

384 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS 

single  full  regiment  of  regulars  at  any  point, 
even  at  risk  of  withdrawing  from  the  Indian 
country  the  men  absolutely  necessary  to  pre- 
vent massacre  there.  He  therefore  called  for 
volunteers  with  whom  to  conduct  such  military 
operations  as  he  deemed  necessary.  He  appor- 
tioned the  call  among  the  several  states  that 
had  not  yet  seceded.  He  called  upon  Virginia 
for  her  quota. 

That  was  the  breaking  point.  Virginia  had 
to  choose.  She  must  either  furnish  a  large 
force  of  volunteers  with  which  the  Federal 
government  might  in  effect  coerce  the  seceding 
states  into  submission,  or  she  must  herself  se- 
cede and  cast  in  her  lot  with  the  cotton  states. 
To  the  Virginian  mind  there  was  only  one 
course  possible.  The  Virginians  believed 
firmly  and  without  doubt  or  question  in  the 
right  of  any  state  to  withdraw  from  the  Union 
at  will.  They  looked  with  unimagined  horror 
upon  every  proposal  that  the  Federal  power 
should  coerce  a  seceding  state  into  submission. 
They  regarded  that  as  an  iniquity,  a  crime,  a 
proceeding  unspeakably  wrongful  and  subver- 
sive of  liberty.  They  could  have  nothing  to 
do  with  such  an  attempt  without  dishonor  of 
the  basest  kind.  Accordingly,  almost  before 
the  ink  was  dry  upon  the  call  upon  Virginia 

38s 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

for  volunteers  with  which  to  make  war  upon 
the  seceding  Southern  States,  the  Virginia,  pro- 
Union  convention,  adopted  an  ordinance  of 
secession,  and  the  Civil  War  was  on. 

The  men  who  had,  so  long  and  so  earnestly, 
and  in  face  of  such  contumely,  labored  to  keep 
Virginia  in  the  Union  and  to  use  all  that  state's 
commanding  influence  in  behalf  of  peace,  felt 
themselves  obliged  to  yield  to  the  inevitable, 
and  to  consent  to  a  sectional  war  for  which  they 
saw  no  necessity  and  recognized  no  occasion. 
They  had  wasted  their  time  in  a  futile  endeavor 
to  bring  about  a  reconciliation  where  the  con- 
flict had  been  all  the  while  hopelessly  "  irre- 
pressible." There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but 
war,  and  Virginia,  deeply  deprecating  war,  set 
herself  at  work  in  earnest  to  prepare  for  the 
conflict. 

In  accordance  with  his  lifelong  habit  of 
mind,  Arthur  Brent  in  this  emergency  put 
aside  all  thoughts  of  self-interest,  and  looked 
about  him  to  discover  in  what  way  he  might 
render  the  highest  service  to  his  native  land, 
of  which  he  was  capable.  He  was  unanimously 
chosen  by  each  of  two  companies  of  volunteers 
in  his  native  county,  to  be  their  captain.  In 
their  rivalry  with  each  other,  they  agreed  to 
make  him  major  in  command  of  a  battalion  to 

386 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS 

be  formed  of  those  two  companies  and  two 
others  that  were  in  process  of  organization. 

He  peremptorily  declined.  ''  I  know  noth- 
ing of  the  military  art,"  he  wrote  to  the  com- 
mittee that  had  laid  the  proposal  before  him. 
"  There  are  scores  of  men  in  the  community 
better  fit  than  I  am  for  military  command. 
Especially  there  is  your  fellow  citizen,  John 
Meaux,  trained  at  West  Point  and  eminently 
fit  for  a  much  higher  command  than  any  that 
you  can  offer  him.  Put  him,  I  earnestly  adjure 
you,  into  the  line  of  promotion.  Elect  him  to 
the  highest  military  office  within  your  gift,  and 
let  me  serve  as  a  private  under  him,  in  either 
of  your  companies,  if  no  opportunity  offers  for 
me  to  render  a  larger  service  and  a  more  valu- 
able one  than  that.  There  is  scarcely  a  man 
among  you  who  couldn't  handle  a  military 
force  more  effectively  than  I  could.  Let  your 
most  capable  men  be  your  commanders,  big 
and  little.  I  believe  firmly  in  the  dictum  *  the 
tools  to  him  who  can  use  them.'  For  myself  I 
see  a  more  fruitful  opportunity  of  service  than 
any  that  military  command  could  bring  to  me. 
I  have  a  certain  skill  which,  I  think,  is  going 
to  be  sorely  needed  in  this  war.  It  is  my  firm 
belief  that  the  struggle  upon  which  we  are  en- 
tering is  destined  to  last  through  long  years 

387 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

of  suffering  and  sore  want.  We  are  mainly 
dependent  upon  importation  not  only  for  the 
most  pressingly  necessary  of  our  medicines 
but  for  that  absolute  necessity  of  life,  salt.  If 
war  shall  shut  us  in,  as  it  is  extremely  likely 
to  do,  we  must  find  means  which  we  do  not 
now  possess  of  producing  these  and  other 
things  for  ourselves,  including  the  materials 
for  that  prime  requisite  of  war — gunpowder. 
It  so  happens  that  I  have  skill  in  such  manu- 
factures as  these,  and  I  purpose  to  turn  it  to 
account  whenever  the  necessity  shall  come 
upon  us.  In  the  meantime,  as  a  surgeon  and, 
upon  occasion,  as  a  private  soldier  I  may  per- 
haps be  able  to  do  more  for  Virginia  and  for 
the  South  than  I  could  ever  hope  to  do  by  as- 
suming those  functions  of  military  command 
for  which  I  have  neither  natural  fitness  nor  the 
fitness  of  training." 

All  this  was  deemed  very  absurd  at  the  time. 
The  war,  it  was  thought,  could  not  last  more 
than  sixty  days — an  opinion  which  Mr.  Secre- 
tary of  State  Seward,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
line,  confidently  shared,  though  his  anticipa- 
tions of  the  end  of  it  were  quite  different  from 
those  entertained  at  the  South.  Why  a  young 
man  of  spirit,  such  as  Arthur  Brent  was,  should 
refuse  to  enter  upon  the  brief  but  glorious 

388 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS 

struggle  in  the  capacity  of  a  major  with  the 
prospect  of  coming  out  of  it  a  brigadier-gen- 
eral, his  neighbors  could  not  understand.  Nor 
could  any  of  them,  with  one  exception,  under- 
stand his  anticipations  of  a  long  war,  or  his 
conviction  that,  end  as  it  might,  the  war  would 
make  an  early  end  of  slavery,  overturning  the 
South's  industrial  system  and  bringing  sore 
poverty  upon  the  people.  The  one  exception 
was  Robert  Copeland,  the  thrifty  young  man 
who  had  lost  caste  by  "  making  too  many  hogs- 
heads of  tobacco  to  the  hand."  He  shared 
Arthur's  views,  and  he  acted  upon  them  in  ways 
that  Arthur  would  have  scorned  to  do.  He 
sent  all  his  negroes  to  Richmond  to  be  sold  by 
auction  to  the  traders  to  the  far  South.  He 
converted  his  plantation,  with  all  its  live  stock 
and  other  appurtenances  into  money,  and  with 
the  proceeds  of  these  his  sellings  he  hurried  to 
New  York  and  purchased  diamonds.  These 
he  bestowed  in  a  belt  which  he  buckled  about 
his  person  and  wore  throughout  the  war,  upon 
the  principle  that  whatever  value  there  might 
or  might  not  be  in  other  things  when  the  war 
should  be  over,  diamonds  always  command 
their  price  throughout  the  civilized  world. 
When  after  this  was  done  he  sought  to  enlist 
in  one  of  the  companies  forming  in  his  neigh- 

389 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

borhood,  he  was  rejected  by  unanimous  vote, 
because  he  had  sold  negroes,  while  the  men  of 
the  company  held  rigidly  to  a  social  standard 
of  conduct  which  he  had  flagrantly  defied.  He 
went  to  Richmond.  He  raised  a  company  of 
ruffians,  which  included  many  "  jailbirds  "  and 
the  like.  He  made  himself  its  captain,  and 
went  into  the  field  as  the  leader  of  a  "  fighting 
battery."  He  distinguished  himself  for  daring, 
and  came  out  of  the  war,  four  years  later, 
a  brigadier-general.  As  such  he  was  excluded 
from  the  benefits  of  the  early  amnesty  procla- 
mation. But  he  cared  little  about  that.  He 
went  to  New  York,  sold  his  diamonds  for  fifty 
per  cent  more  than  their  cost,  and  accepted 
high  office  in  the  army  of  the  Khedive  of 
Egypt.  He  thus  continued  active  in  that  pro- 
fession of  arms  in  which  he  had  found  his  best 
opportunity  to  exercise  his  peculiar  gift  of 
"  getting  out  of  men  all  there  is  in  them  " — 
which  was  the  phrase  chosen  by  himself  to  de- 
scribe his  own  special  capabilities.* 

♦This  story  of  Robert  Copeland  is  historical  fact,  ex- 
cept for  such  disguises  of  name,  etc.  as  are  necessary 
under  the  circumstances.— Authos. 


390 


XXXIII 

"AT  PARIS  IT  WAS" 

W  ^URING  all  this  year  of  wandering  on 
I  M  the  part  of  Dorothy  Edmonia  did 
-^--^  her  duty  as  a  correspondent  with 
conspicuous  fidelity.  To  her  letters  far  more 
than  to  Dorothy's  own,  Arthur  was  indebted 
for  exact  information  as  to  Dorothy's  doings 
and  Dorothy's  surroundings  and  Dorothy's 
self.  For  Dorothy's  reticence  concerning  her- 
self grew  upon  her  as  the  months  went  on. 
She  wrote  freely  and  with  as  much  apparent 
candor  and  fulness  as  ever,  but  she  managed 
never  to  reveal  herself  in  the  old  familiar  fash- 
ion. Not  that  there  was  anything  of  estrange- 
ment in  her  words  or  tone,  for  there  was  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  It  was  only  that  she  mani- 
fested a  certain  shyness  and  reserve  concerning 
her  own  thought  and  feeling  when  these  be- 
came intimate, — a  reserve  like  that  which 
every  woman  instinctively  practises  concerning 
details  of  the  toilet.  A  woman  may  frankly 
admit  to  a  man  that  she  finds  comfort  in  the 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

use  of  a  little  powder,  but  she  does  not  want 
him  to  see  the  powder  box  and  puff.  She  may 
mention  her  shoe-strings  quite  without  hesita- 
tion, but  if  one  of  them  comes  unfastened,  she 
will  climb  two  flights  of  stairs  rather  than  let 
him  see  her  readjust  it. 

In  somewhat  that  way  Dorothy  at  this  time 
wrote  to  Arthur.  If  she  read  a  book  or  saw  a 
picture  that  pleased  her,  she  would  write  to 
him,  telling  him  quite  all  her  external  thought 
concerning  it;  but  if  it  inspired  any  emotion 
of  a  certain  sort  in  her,  she  had  nothing  what- 
ever to  say  concerning  that.  In  one  particular, 
too,  she  deliberately  abstained  from  telling  him 
even  of  her  pursuits  and  ambitions.  He  was 
left  to  hear  of  that  from  Edmonia,  who  wrote : 

"  Apparently  we  are  destined  to  remain  here 
in  Paris  during  the  rest  of  our  stay  abroad. 
For  Dorothy  has  a  new  craze  which  she  will 
in  no  wise  relinquish  or  abate.  For  that,  you, 
sir,  are  responsible,  for  you  planted  the  seed 
that  are  now  producing  this  luxuriant  growth 
of  quite  unfeminine  character.  You  taught 
Dorothy  the  rudiments  of  chemistry  and  phy- 
sics. You  awakened  in  her  a  taste  for  such 
studies  which  has  grown  into  an  uncontrollable 
passion. 

"  She  has  become  the  special  pupil  of  one  of 

392 


^AT  PARIS  IT  WAS'' 

the  greatest  chemists  in  France,  and  she  almost 
literally  lives  in  his  laboratory,  at  least  during 
the  daylight  hours.  She  goes  to  operas  about 
twice  a  week,  and  she  takes  violin  lessons  from 
a  woman  before  breakfast ;  but  during  the  rest 
of  the  time  she  does  nothing  but  slop  at  a  labo- 
ratory sink.  Her  master  in  this  department 
is  madly  in  love — not  with  her,  though  he  calls 
her,  in  the  only  English  phrase  he  speaks  with- 
out accent, '  the  apple  of  his  eye,' — but  with  her 
enthusiasm  in  science.  He  describes  it  as  a 
'  grand  passion,'  and  positively  raves  in  ejacu- 
latory  French  and  badly  broken  English,  over 
the  extraordinary  rapidity  with  which  she 
learns,  the  astonishing  grasp  she  has  of  princi- 
ples, and  the  readiness  with  which  she  applies 
principles  to  practice.  '  Positively,'  he  ex- 
claimed to  me  the  other  day,  '  she  is  no  longer  a 
student — she  is  a  chemist, — almost  a  great 
chemist.  If  I  had  to  select  one  to  take  absolute 
control  of  a  laboratory  for  the  nice  production 
of  the  most  difficult  compounds,  I  would  this 
day  choose  not  any  man  in  all  France,  but  Ma- 
demoiselle by  herself.'  Then  he  paid  you  a 
compliment.  He  added ;  '  and  she  tells  me  she 
has  studied  under  a  master  for  only  a  few 
months!  It  is  marvellous!  It  is  incredible, 
except  that  we  must  believe  Mademoiselle,  who 

393 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

is  the  soul  of  honor  and  truth.  Ah — ^that  is 
what  gives  her  her  love  of  science — for  science 
loves  nothing  but  truth.  But  her  first  master 
must  be  a  wonder,  a  born  teacher,  an  enthusi- 
ast, a  real  master  who  inspires  his  pupil  with  a 
passion  like  his  own.' 

"  I  confirmed  Dorothy's  statement  that  she 
had  received  only  a  few  months'  tuition  in  a  lit- 
tle plantation  laboratory,  but — at  the  risk  of 
making  you  disagreeably  conceited,  I  will  tell 
you  this — I  fully  confirmed  the  judgment  he 
had  formed  of  Dorothy's  master. 

"  *  Ah,  you  know  him  then  ?  '  the  enthusias- 
tic Frenchman  broke  out ;  *  and  you  will  tell  me 
his  name,  which  Mademoiselle  refused  to  speak 
in  answer  to  my  inquiry?  And  you  will  give 
me  a  letter  which  may  excuse  me  for  the  deep 
presumption  when  I  write  to  him?  I  must 
write  to  him.  I  must  know  a  master  who  has 
no  other  such  in  all  France.  His  name  Made- 
moiselle Bannister,  his  name,  I  pray  you.' 

"  Now  comes  the  curious  part  of  the  story. 
I  told  Monsieur  your  name  and  address,  and  his 
eyes  instantly  lighted  up.  '  Ah,  that  accounts 
for  all ! '  he  exclaimed.  '  I  know  the  Dr.  Brent. 
He  was  my  own  pupil  till  I  could  teach  him 
nothing  that  he  did  not  know.  Then  he  taught 
me  all  the  original  things  he  had  learned  for 

394 


*'AT  PARIS  IT  WAS'' 

himself  during  his  stay  in  my  laboratory  and 
before  that.  Then  we  ceased  to  be  master  and 
pupil.  We  were  after  that  two  masters  work- 
ing together  and  every  day  finding  out  much 
that  the  world  can  never  be  enough  grateful 
for.  He  is  truly  a  wonder,  Mister  the  Doctor 
Brent!  I  no  longer  am  surprised  at  Mad- 
emoiselle Souths  accomplishments  and  her  en- 
thusiasm. But  why  did  she  not  want  to  speak 
to  me  his  name?  Is  it  that  she  loves  him  and 
he  loves  her  not — ah,  no,  that  cannot  be !  He 
must  love  Mademoiselle  Sout'  after  he  has 
taught  her.  Nothing  else  is  possible.  But  is 
it  then  that  he  is  dull  to  find  out,  and  that  he 
doubts  the  reaction  of  her  love  in  return  for 
his  ?  Ah,  no !  He  is  too  great  a  chemist  for 
that.  There  must  be  some  other  explanation 
and  I  cannot  find  it  out.  But  Mister  the  Doctor 
Brent  is  after  all  only  an  American.  The  Amer- 
icans are  what  you  call  alert  in  everything  but 
one.  Mister  the  Doctor  Brent  would  quickly 
discover  the  smallest  error  in  a  reaction  and  he 
would  know  the  cause  of  it.  But  he  did  not 
note  the  affinity  in  Mademoiselle  for  himself. 
I  am  not  a  greater  chemist  than  he  is,  and 
yet  I  see  it  instantly,  when  she  does  not  want 
to  speak  to  me  his  name!  He  is  a  man  most 
fortunate,  in  that  I  am  old  and  have  Madame 

395 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

at  home  and  three  young  sons  in  the  ficole 
Polytechnique !  Ah,  how  ardently  I  should 
have  wooed  Mademoiselle,  the  charming,  if 
she  had  come  to  me  as  a  pupil  twenty  five 
years  ago !  * 

"  Now,  Vm  not  quite  sure  Arthur  that  your 
danger  in  that  quarter  is  altogether  past.  Yes, 
I  am.  That  was  a  sorry  jest.  But  I  sincerely 
hope  that  on  our  return  you  may  be  a  trifle 
more  alert  than  you  have  hitherto  been  in  dis- 
covering '  reactions.'  You  don't  at  all  deserve 
that  I  should  thus  enlighten  and  counsel  you. 
And  it  may  very  easily  prove  to  be  too  late 
when  we  return.  For,  in  spite  of  her  absorp- 
tion in  chemistry,  and  the  horribly  stained  con- 
dition of  her  fingers  sometimes,  I  drag  her  to 
all  sorts  of  entertainments,  and  at  the  Tuileries 
especially  she  is  a  favorite.  The  Empress  is 
so  gracious  to  *  the  charming  American,'  as 
she  calls  her,  that  she  even  summons  me  to  her 
side  for  the  sake  of  Dorothy's  company.  The 
entire  '  eligible  list '  of  the  diplomatic  corps 
has  gone  daft  about  her  beauty,  her  naivete 
and  her  wonderful  accomplishments.  The  Due 
de  Morny  has  even  ventured  to  call  twice  at 
cur  hotel,  begging  the  privilege  of  *  paying  his 
respects  to  the  charming  young  American.' 
But  the  Due  de  Morny  is  a  beast — ^an  accom- 


^AT  PARIS  IT  WAS'' 

plished,  fascinating  beast,  if  you  please,  but  a 
beast,  nevertheless, — and  I  have  used  my 
woman's  privilege  of  fibbing  so  far  as  to  send 
him  word,  each  time,  that  Mademoiselle  was 
not  at  home. 

"  '  Why  did  the  Due  de  Morny  want  to  call 
upon  me  ? '  queried  the  simple,  honest  minded 
Dorothy,  when  she  heard  of  the  visits  of  this 
greatest  potentate  in  France  next  to  the  Em- 
peror. I  could  not  explain,  so  I  fibbed  a  bit 
further  and  told  her  it  was  only  his  extreme 
politeness  and  the  French  friendship  for 
Americans. 

"  Young  Jefferson  Peyton,  you  know,  has 
been  following  us  from  the  beginning.  Dor- 
othy expresses  surprise,  now  and  then,  that  his 
route  happens,  so  singularly  to  coincide  with 
our  own.  I  think  he  will  explain  all  that  to  her 
presently.  He  has  greatly  improved  by  travel. 
He  has  learned  that  his  name  and  family  count 
for  nothing  outside  Virginia,  and  that  he  is  per- 
sonally a  man  of  far  less  consequence  than  he 
has  been  brought  up  to  consider  himself.  Now 
that  he  has  been  cured  of  a  conceit  that  was 
due  rather  to  his  provincial  bringing  up  than  to 
any  innate  tendency  in  that  direction,  now  that 
he  has  seen  enough  of  the  world  to  acquire  a 
new  perspective  in  contemplating  himself,  he 

397 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

has  become  in  truth  a  very  pleasing  young  man. 
His  father  did  well  to  act  upon  Aunt  Polly's 
advice  and  send  him  abroad  for  education  and 
culture.  He  is  going  to  propose  to  Dorothy 
at  the  very  first  opportunity.  He  has  told  me 
so  himself,  and  as  she  has  a  distinct  liking  for 
the  amiable  and  really  very  handsome  young 
fellow,  I  cannot  venture  upon  any  confident 
prediction  as  to  the  consequences.'' 

That  letter  came  as  a  Christmas  gift  to  Ar- 
thur Brent.  One  week  later,  on  the  New 
Year's  day,  came  one  from  Dorothy  which 
made  amends  by  reason  of  its  resumption  of 
much  of  the  old  tone  of  candor  and  confidence 
which  he  had  so  sadly  missed  from  her  letters 
during  many  months  past. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,  Cousin  Arthur,"  she 
began.  "  I  want  to  go  home  at  once.  I  want 
my  dear  old  mammy  to  put  her  arms  around 
me  as  she  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  little  child, 
and  croon  me  to  sleep,  so  that  I  may  forget  all 
that  has  happened  to  me.  And,  I  want  to  talk 
with  you  again.  Cousin  Arthur,  as  freely  as 
I  used  to  do  when  you  and  I  rode  together 
through  the  woodlands  or  the  corn  at  sunrise, 
when  we  didn't  mind  a  wetting  from  the  dew, 
and  when  our  horses  and  my  dear  dogs  seemed 
to  enjoy  the  glory  of  the  morning  as  keenly 

398 


«^r  PARIS  IT  WAS'' 

as  we  did.  It  is  in  memory  of  those  mornings 
that  I  send  you  back  the  soiled  handkerchief 
you  mailed  to  me.  I  want  you,  please,  to  give 
it  to  Ben,  and  tell  him  I  make  him  a  present 
of  it,  because  it  is  no  longer  fit  for  you  to  use. 
You  needn't  tell  him  ;an3rthing  more  than  that. 
He  will  understand.  But  I  mustn't  leave  you 
any  longer  to  the  mercy  of  such  neglect  on  the 
part  of  servants  to  whom  you  are  always  so 
good.  I  must  get  home  again  before  this  ter- 
rible war  breaks  out.  I  have  read  all  your 
letters  about  it  a  hundred  times  each,  and  I  have 
tried  to  fit  myself  for  my  part  in  it.  When  you 
told  me  how  great  the  need  was  likely  to  be  for 
somebody  qualified  to  make  medicines,  and  salt, 
and  saltpetre  and  soda  and  potash  for  gun- 
powder— ^no,  you  didn't  tell  me  of  all  that,  you 
wrote  to  Edmonia  about  it,  and  that  hurt  my 
feelings  because  it  seemed  to  put  me  out  of 
your  life  and  work — ^but  when  Edmonia  told 
me  what  you  had  written  about  it,  I  set  my- 
self to  work  again  at  my  chemistry,  and  I  have 
worked  so  diligently  at  it  that  my  master, 
Mons.  X.  declares  that  I  am  capable  of  taking 
complete  charge  of  a  laboratory  and  doing  the 
most  difficult  and  delicate  of  all  the  work 
needed.  I  believe  I  am.  Anyhow,  he  has 
somehow  found  out, — ^though  I  certainly  never 

399 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

told  him  of  it — that  you  taught  me  at  the  be- 
ginning and  he  insists  upon  giving  me  a  letter 
to  you  about  my  qualifications. 

"  You  say  you  hope  Virginia  will  not  secede, 
and  that  perhaps,  after  all,  there  will  be  no  war. 
But  I  see  clearly  that  you  have  no  great  con- 
fidence in  your  own  hopes.  So  I  am  in  a  great 
hurry  to  get  home  before  trouble  comes.  After 
it  comes  it  may  be  too  late  for  me  to  get  home 
at  all. 

"  So  I  should  just  compel  Edmonia  to  take 
the  first  ship  for  New  York,  if  we  had  any 
money.  But  we  haven't  any,  because  I  have 
spent  all  my  own  and  borrowed  and  spent  all 
of  hers.  We  must  wait  now  until  you  and 
Archer  Bannister  can  send  us  new  letters  of 
credit  or  whatever  it  is  that  you  call  the  papers 
on  which  the  banking  people  here  are  so  ready 
to  give  us  all  the  money  we  want.  Now  I 
must  'fess  up  about  the  expenses.  They  have 
not  been  incurred  for  new  gowns  or  for  any 
other  feminine  frivolities.  I've  spent  all  my 
own  money  and  all  of  Edmonia's  for  chemicals 
and  chemical  apparatus,  which  I  foresee  that 
you  and  I  will  need  in  order  to  make  medicines 
and  salt  and  soda  and  saltpetre  for  our  soldiers 
and  people.  I've  ordered  all  these  things  sent 
by  a  ship  that  is  going  to  Nassau,  in  the  Ba- 

400 


'AT  PARIS  IT  WAS'* 

hama  Islands,  and  the  captain  of  the  ship  prom- 
ises me  that  whether  there  is  a  blockade  or  not, 
he  will  get  them  through  to  you  somehow  or 
other.  By  the  way  the  foolish  fellow,  who  is 
a  French  naval  officer,  detailed  for  the  mer- 
chant service,  wanted  me  to  marry  him — isn't 
it  absurd? — and  I  told  him  we'd  keep  that 
question  open  till  the  chemicals  and  apparatus 
should  be  safe  in  your  hands,  and  till  he  could 
come  to  you  in  the  uniform  of  a  Virginia  offi- 
cer, and  ask  you  as  my  guardian,  for  permis- 
sion to  pay  his  addresses.  Was  it  wrong, 
Cousin  Arthur,  thus  to  play  with  a  fellow  who 
never  really  loved-  anybody,  but  who  simply 
wanted  Pocahontas  plantation?  You  see  IVe 
become  very  bad,  and  very  knowing,  since  IVe 
been  without  control,  as  I  told  you  I  would. 
But,  anyhow,  that  Frenchman  will  get  the 
things  to  you  in  safety. 

"  But  all  this  nonsense  isn't  what  I  wanted  to 
write  to  you.  I  want  to  go  home  and  I  will  go 
home,  even  if  I  have  to  accept  Jefferson  Pey- 
ton's offer  to  furnish  the  money  necessary.  We 
simply  mustn't  be  shut  out  of  Virginia  when 
the  war  comes,  and  nobody  can  tell  when  it  will 
come  now.  But  of  course  I  shall  not  let  Jeff 
furnish  the  money.  That  was  only  a  strong 
way  of  putting  it.    For  Jeff  has  insulted  me, 

401 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

I  think.  I'm  not  quite  certain,  but  I  think  that 
is  what  it  amounts  to.  You  will  know,  and  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  all  about  it,  just  as  I  used 
to  tell  you  all  about  everything,  before — well 
before  all  this  sort  of  thing.  Jeff  has  been 
travelling  about  ever  since  we  began  our  jour- 
ney, and  he  has  really  been  very  nice  to  us, 
and  very  useful  sometimes.  But  a  few  days 
ago  he  proposed  marriage  to  me.  I  was  dis- 
posed to  be  very  kindly  in  my  treatment  of  him, 
because  I  rather  like  the  poor  fellow.  But 
when  I  told  him  I  didn't  in  the  least  think  of 
marrying  him  or  anybody  else,  he  lost  his 
temper,  and  had  the  assurance  to  say  that  the 
time  would  come  when  I  would  be  very  grate- 
ful to  him  for  being  willing  to  offer  me  such  a 
road  out  of  my  difficulties.  He  didn't  explain, 
for  I  instantly  rang  for  a  servant  to  show  him 
out  of  the  hotel  parlor,  and  myself  retired  by 
another  door.  But,  I  think  I  know  what  he 
meant,  because  I  have  found  out  all  about  my- 
self and  my  mother,  all  the  things  that  people 
have  been  so  laboriously  endeavoring  to  keep 
me  from  finding  out.  And  among  other  things 
I  have  found  out  that  I  must  marry  Jeff  Pey- 
ton or  nobody.  So  I  will  marry  nobody,  so 
long  as  I  live.  I'll  be  like  Aunt  Polly,  just 
good  and  useful  in  the  world. 

402 


^AT  PARIS  IT  WAS'* 

"I'll  write  you  all  about  this  by  the  next 
steamer,  if  I  can  make  up  my  mind  to  do  it — 
that  is  to  say  if  I  find  that  in  spite  of  all,  I 
may  go  on  thinking  of  you  as  my  best  friend  on 
earth,  and  telling  you  everything  that  troubles 
me  just  as  I  used  to  tell  dear  old  mammy,  when 
the  bees  stung  me  or  the  daisies  wilted  before 
I  could  make  them  into  a  pretty  chain.  I  have 
a  great  longing  to  tell  you  things  in  the  old, 
frank,  unreserved  way,  and  to  feel  the  comfort 
of  your  strong  support  in  doing  what  it  is  right 
for  me  to  do.  Somehow,  all  this  distance  has 
seemed  to  make  it  difficult  to  do  that.  But 
now  that  my  fate  in  life  is  settled  and  my 
career  fully  marked  out  as  a  woman  whose  only 
ambition  is  to  be  as  useful  as  possible,  I  may 
talk  to  you,  mayn't  I,  in  the  old,  unreserved 
way,  in  full  assurance  that  you  won't  let  me 
make  any  mistakes? 

"  That  is  what  I  want.  So  I  have  this  mo- 
ment decided  that  I  will  not  wait  for  you  to 
send  me  a  new  letter  of  credit,  but  will  find 
somebody  here  to  lend  me  enough  money  to  go 
home  on.  In  the  meantime  I'm  going  to  begin 
being  the  old,  frank,  truthful  Dorothy,  by  writ- 
ing you,  by  the  next  steamer,  all  that  I  have 
learned  about  myself." 

403 


XXXIV 

DOROTHY'S  DISCOVERY 

J^  OROTHY'S  next  letter  came  at  the 
I  m  beginning  of  the  spring.  There 
-JL-^  were  mail  steamers  at  that  time  only 
once  a  fortnight  and  the  passage  occupied  a 
fortnight  more — or  perhaps  a  longer  time  as 
the  sea  and  the  west  wind  might  determine. 

"  I  hope  this  letter  will  reach  you  before  I 
do,  Cousin  Arthur,"  Dorothy  began.  "  But 
I'm  not  quite  sure  of  that,  for  we  hope  to  sail 
by  the  Asia  on  her  next  trip  and  she  is  a  much 
faster  ship  they  say  than  the  one  that  is  to 
carry  this.  The  money  things  arranged  them- 
selves easily  and  without  effort.  For  when  I 
asked  Mr.  Livingston, — Mildred's  husband, 
you  know — to  go  with  me  to  the  bankers  to  see 
if  they  wouldn't  lend  me  a  few  hundred  dollars, 
he  laughed  and  said : 

*  You  needn't  bother,  you  little  spendthrift. 
I  provided  for  all  that  before  we  started.  I 
knew  you  women  would  spend  all  your  money, 
so  I  gave  myself  a  heavy  credit  with  my  bank- 

404 


DOROTHrS  DISCOVERT 

ers  here,  and  of  course  you  can  have  all  the 
money  you  want.'  I  didn't  Hke  it  for  him  to 
think  we'd  spent  our  money  fooHshly,  but  I 
couldn't  explain,  so  I  just  thanked  him  and 
said,  with  all  the  dignity  I  could  command  ly 
*  I'll  give  you  a  letter  of  credit  on  my  guardiam 
Dr.  Brent.'  I  suppose  I  got  the  terms  wrong, 
for  he  laughed  in  his  careless  way — he  always 
laughs  at  things  as  if  nothing  in  the  world 
mattered.  He  even  laughed  at  his  own  sea- 
sickness on  the  ship.  Anyhow,  he  told  me  I 
needn't  give  him  any  kind  of  papers — that  you 
would  settle  the  bill  when  the  time  came,  and 
that  I  could  have  all  the  money  I  needed.  So 
at  first  we  thought  we  should  get  off  by  the 
ship  that  is  to  carry  this  letter.  But  some- 
thing got  the  matter  with  Mildred's  teeth,  so 
we  had  to  wait  over  for  the  Asia.  Why  do 
things  get  the  matter  with  people's  teeth? 
Nothing  ever  got  the  matter  with  mine,  and  I 
never  heard  of  anything  getting  the  matter 
with  yours  or  Edmonia's.  Mr.  Livingston  says 
that's  because  we  eat  corn  bread.  How  I  wish 
I  had  some  at  this  moment! 

"  But  that  isn't  what  I  want  to  write  to  you 
about.  I  have  much  more  serious  things  to  tell 
you — things  that  alter  my  whole  life,  and  make 
it  sadder  than  I  ever  expected  it  to  be. 

405 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  I  have  seen  my  mother,  and  she  has  told 
me  the  whole  terrible  story.  She  wouldn't  have 
told  me  now  or  ever,  but  that  she  thought 
she  was  going  to  die  under  a  surgical  opera- 
tion. 

"You  remember  I  wrote  to  you  about  Ma- 
dame  Le  Sud,  whom  I  met  on  shipboard  and 
learned  to  love  so  much.  I'm  glad  I  learned 
to  love  her,  because  she  is  my  mother.  She 
calls  herself  Madame  Le  Sud,  because  that  is 
only  the  French  way  of  calling  herself  Mrs. 
South,  you  know. 

"  The  way  of  it  was  this :  When  we  parted  at 
Liverpool  I  told  her  what  our  trip  was  to  be. 
She  was  coming  direct  to  Paris,  and  I  made 
her  promise  to  let  me  visit  her  here  if  she  did 
not  leave  before  our  arrival,  as  she  thought  she 
probably  would.  When  we  got  here  I  rather 
hoped  to  hear  from  her,  for  somehow,  though 
I  did  not  dream  of  the  relationship  between  us, 
I  had  formed  a  very  tender  attachment  to  her, 
and  I  longed  to  see  her  again. 

"  As  the  weeks  passed  and  I  heard  nothing, 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  she  had  gone  back 
to  New  York  before  we  reached  Paris,  and  I 
was  not  undeceived  until  a  few  weeks  ago, 
when  she  sent  me  a  sad  little  note,  telling  me 
she  was  ill  and  asking  me  to  call  upon  her  in 

406 


DOROTHrS  DISCOFERr 

her  apartments  in  the  Rue  Neuve  des  Petits 
Champs. 

"  I  went  at  once  and  found  her  in  very  pitiful 
condition.  Her  apartments  were  mere  garrets, 
ill  furnished  and  utterly  uncomfortable,  and 
she  herself  was  manifestly  suffering.  When  I 
asked  her  why  she  had  not  sent  for  me  before, 
she  answered :  *  It  was  better  not,  child.  You 
were  in  your  proper  place.  You  were  happy. 
You  were  receiving  social  recognition  of  the 
highest  kind  and  it  was  good  for  you  because 
you  are  fit  for  it  and  deserve  it.  I  have  sent 
for  you  now  only  because  I  have  something 
that  I  must  give  to  you  before  I  die.  For  I'm 
going  to  die  almost  immediately.'  She  wouldn't 
let  me  interrupt  her.  *  I'm  going  to  have  a 
surgical  operation  tomorrow,  and  I  do  not  ex- 
pect to  get  over  it.' 

"  I  found  out  presently  that  she  was  going 
to  a  charity  hospital  for  her  treatment,  and  that 
it  was  because  she  is  so  poor;  for  by  reason 
of  her  sickness,  she  has  lost  her  employment, 
which  was  that  of  a  dresser  for  an  opera  com- 
pany. Think  of  it,  Cousin  Arthur!  My 
mother, — though  I  didn't  know  then  that  she 
was  my  mother — a  dresser  to  those  opera  peo- 
ple! I'm  glad  she  didn't  tell  me  she  was  my 
mother  until  after  I  had  told  her  she  should  not 

407 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

go  to  a  charity  hospital,  to  be  operated  on  be- 
fore a  class  of  gaping  students  and  treated  very 
much  as  if  she  were  a  subject  in  a  dissecting 
room.  I  took  all  that  in  my  own  hands.  I 
went  down  to  the  concierge  and  secured  a  com- 
fortable apartment  for  my  mother  on  the  entre- 
sol, with  a  nice  French  maid  to  look  after  her. 
Then  I  sent  for  the  best  surgeon  I  could  hear 
of  to  treat  her,  and  he  promised  me  to  get  her 
quite  well  again  in  a  few  weeks,  which  he  has 
done.  It  was  after  I  had  moved  her  down  to 
the  new  apartments  and  sent  the  maid  out  for 
a  little  dinner — for  my  mother  hadn't  anything 
to  eat  or  any  money — it  was  after  all  that  that 
she  told  me  her  story. 

"  First  she  gave  me  a  magnificent  ring,  a 
beautiful  fire  opal  set  round  with  diamonds. 
Think  of  it!  She  with  that  in  her  possession 
and  belonging  to  her,  which  would  have  sold 
for  enough  to  keep  her  in  luxury  for  months, 
yet  shivering  there  without  a  fire  and  without 
food,  and  waiting  for  the  morrow,  to  go  to  a 
charity  hospital  like  a  pauper,  while  I  have  the 
best  rooms  in  the  best  hotel  in  Paris !  And  she 
my  mother,  all  the  while ! 

"  When  she  put  the  ring  on  my  finger,  say- 
ing, 'It  fits  you  as  it  once  fitted  me — ^but  you 
are  worthy  of  it  as  I  never  was,'  I  cried  a  little 

408 


DOROTHrS  DISCOVERT 

and  begged  her  to  tell  me  what  it  all  meant 
Then  she  broke  down  and,  clasping  me  in  her 
arms,  told  me  that  she  was  my  own  mother. 
I  won't  tell  you  all  the  details  of  our  weeping 
time,  for  they  are  too  sacred  even  for  you  to 
hear.  Let  me  simply  copy  here,  as  accurately 
as  I  can,  my  mother's  account  of  herself. 

"  '  I  was  born,*  she  said,  *  the  daughter  of  a 
Virginian  of  good  family — as  good  as  any. 
My  father  lived  as  many  Virginians  do,  far 
beyond  his  means.  Perhaps  he  did  wrong 
things — I  do  not  know,  and  after  all  it  is  no 
matter.  At  any  rate  when  he  died  people 
seemed  to  care  very  little  for  us — my  mother 
and  me — when  everything  we  had  was  sold 
and  we  went  out  into  the  world  to  hunt  for 
bread.  I  was  seventeen  then,  I  had  what  they 
call  a  genius  for  music.  We  went  to  New  York 
and  lived  wretchedly  there  for  a  time.  But  I 
earned  something  with  my  violin  and  my  'cello, 
and  now  and  then  by  singing,  for  I  had  a  voice 
that  was  deemed  good.  We  lived  in  that 
wretched,  ill-mannered,  loose-moraled,  disso- 
lute and  financially  reckless  set  which  calls  itself 
Bohemia,  and  excuses  itself  from  all  social  and 
moral  obligation  on  the  ground  that  its  mem- 
bers are  persons  of  genius,  though  in  fact  most 
of  them  are  anything  else.    My  mother  never 

409 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

liked  these  people.  She  simply  tolerated  them, 
and  she  did  that  only  because  she  had  no  choice. 
She  did  her  best  to  shield  me  against  harm  to 
my  soul  in  contact  with  them,  but  she  could 
not  prevent  the  contact  itself.  Our  bread  and 
butter  and  the  roof  over  our  heads  depended 
upon  that.  Finally  there  came  into  our  set  a 
manager  who  was  looking  out  for  opportuni- 
ties. He  heard  me  play,  and  he  heard  me  sing. 
He  proposed  that  I  should  go  to  Europe  for 
instruction  at  his  expense,  and  that  he  should 
bring  me  out  as  a  genius  in  the  autumn.  I 
went,  and  I  received  some  brief  instruction  of 
great  value  to  me — not  that  it  made  me  a  better 
musician  but  that  it  taught  me  how  to  captivate 
an  audience  with  such  gifts  as  I  had.  Well 
the  manager  brought  me  out,  and  I  succeeded 
even  beyond  his  expectations.  I  don't  think 
it  was  my  musical  ability  altogether,  though 
that  was  thought  to  be  remarkable,  I  believe.  I 
was  beautiful  then,  as  you  are  now,  Dorothy; 
I  had  all  the  charm  of  a  willowy  grace,  which, 
added  to  my  beauty,  made  men  and  women  go 
mad  over  me.  I  made  money  in  abundance 
for  my  manager,  and  that  was  all  that  he  cared 
for.  I  made  money  for  myself  too,  and  my 
mother  and  I  were  eagerly  sought  after  by  the 
leaders  of  fashion.     We  ceased  to  know  the 

410 


DOROTHrS  DISCOVERr 

old  Bohemia  and  came  to  be  members  of  a 
new  and  perhaps  not  a  better  set — except  in  its 
conformity  to  those  rules  of  life  which  are 
supposed  to  hedge  respectability  about,  without 
really  improving  its  morals.  For  I  tell  you 
child  I  saw  more  of  real  wickedness  in  my  con- 
tact with  those  who  call  themselves  the  socially 
elect  than  I  ever  dreamed  of  among  my  old- 
time  Bohemian  associates.  The  only  advantage 
these  dissolutes  had  over  the  others  was,  that 
having  bank  accounts  they  drew  checks  for 
their  debts  where  the  others  shirked  and  shuf- 
fled to  escape  from  theirs. 

" '  I  was  glad,  therefore,  when  your  father 
came  into  my  life.  He  was  a  man  of  a  higher 
t)rpe  than  any  that  I  had  known  since  early 
childhood — a  man  of  integrity,  of  honor,  of 
high  purposes.  His  courtesy  was  exquisite,  and 
it  was  sincere.  It  is  often  said  of  a  man  that  he 
would  not  tell  a  lie  to  save  his  life.  Your 
father  went  further  than  that,  my  child.  He 
would  not  tell  a  lie  even  to  please  a  woman, 
and  with  such  a  man  as  he  was,  pleasing  a 
woman  was  a  stronger  temptation  than  saving 
his  life.  He  was  in  New  York  taking  a  sup- 
plementary medical  course — what  they  now  call 
a  post  graduate  course, — in  order,  as  he  said, 
that  be  might  the  better  fulfil  his  life-saving 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

mission  as  a  physician.    He  fell  madly  in  love 
with  me,  and  I — God  help  me !    I  loved  him  as 
well  as  one  of  my  shallow  nature  and  irregular 
bringing  up  could  love  any  man.    After  a  little 
I  married  him.     I  went  with  him  for  a  brief 
trip  abroad,  and  after  that  I  went  to  be  mistress 
of  Pocahontas.    I  looked  forward  longingly  to 
the  beautiful  life  of  refinement  there,  as  he  so 
often  pictured  it  to  me.     I  was  tired  of  the 
whirl  and  excitement.    I  was  weary  of  the  foot- 
lights and  of  having  to  take  my  applause  and 
my  approval  over  the  heads  of  the  orchestra. 
I  thought  I  should  be  perfectly  happy,  playing 
grand  lady  in  an  old,  historic  Virginia  house. 
I  was  only  nineteen  years  old  then, — I  am  well 
under  forty  still — and  for  a  time  I  did  enjoy 
the  new  life  amazingly.     But  after  a  little  it 
wearied  me.    It  seemed  to  me  too  narrow,  too 
conventional,  too  uninteresting.     When  I  had 
company  and  poured  my  whole  soul  into  a 
violin  obligato, — rendering  the  great  music  in 
a  way  which  had  often  brought  down  the  house 
and  called  for  repeated  encores  while  delighted 
audiences  threatened  to  bury  me  under  flowers 
— when  I  did  that  sort  of  thing  at  Pocahontas, 
the  guests  would  say  coldly  how  well  I  played 
and  all  the  other  parrot  like  things  that  people 
say  when  they  mean  to  be  polite  but  have  no 

412 


DOROTHrS  DISCOVERr 

real  appreciation  of  music.  Little  by  little  I 
grew  utterly  weary  of  the  life.  The  very  things 
in  it  that  had  at  first  delighted  and  rested  me, 
became  like  thorns  in  my  flesh.  As  the  rescued 
children  of  Israel  longed  for  the  flesh  pots  of 
Egypt,  so  at  last  I  came  to  long  again  for  the 
delights  of  the  old  life  on  the  stage,  with  its 
excitements,  its  ever  changing  pleasures,  its 
triumphs  and  even  its  failures  and  disappoint- 
ments. Yet  it  was  not  so  much  a  longing  for 
that  old  life  which  oppressed  me,  as  an  intoler- 
able impatience  to  get  out  of  the  new  one  from 
which  I  had  expected  so  much  of  happiness. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  tread-mill  life  of  self-indul- 
gence. I  was  surrounded  by  every  luxury  that 
a  well-ordered  woman  could  desire.  But  I  was 
not  a  well-ordered  woman,  and  the  very  luxury 
of  my  surroundings,  the  very  exemption  they 
gave  me  from  all  care,  all  responsibility,  all  en- 
deavor, seemed  to  drive  me  almost  insane  with 
impatience.  I  had  nothing  to  do.  I  was  sur- 
rounded by  skilled  servants  who  provokingly 
anticipated  every  wish  I  could  form.  If  I 
wanted  even  to  rinse  my  fingers  after  eating  a 
peach,  I  was  not  permitted  to  do  it  in  any  ordi- 
nary way.  There  was  always  a  maid  standing 
ready  with  a  bowl  and  napkin  for  my  use.  My 
bed  was  prepared  for  me  before  I  went  to  it, 

413 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

and  the  maid  waited  to  put  out  the  candle  aftet 
I  had  gone  to  rest.  Your  father  worshipped 
me,  and  surrounded  me  with  attentions  on  his 
own  part  and  on  that  of  others,  which  were  in- 
tolerable in  the  perfection  of  their  service.  I 
knew  that  I  was  not  worthy  of  his  worship  and 
I  often  told  him  so,  to  no  effect.  He  only 
worshipped  me  the  more.  The  only  time  I  ever 
saw  him  angry  was  once  soon  after  you  were 
born.  I  loved  you  as  I  had  never  dreamed  of 
loving  anybody  or  anything  before  in  my  life 
— even  better  ten  thousand  times  than  I  had 
ever  loved  music  itself.  I  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing for  you  with  my  own  hands.  I  wanted 
to  feel  that  I  was  your  mother  and  you  alto- 
gether my  own  child. 

"  '  So,  just  as  old  mammy  was  preparing  to 
give  you  your  bath,  I  pretended  to  be  faint  and 
sent  her  below  stairs  to  bring  me  a  cup  of  coffee. 
When  she  had  gone  I  seized  you  and  in  ecstatic 
triumph,  set  to  work  to  make  your  little  baby 
toilet  with  my  own  hands.  Just  as  I  began, 
your  father  came  stalking  up  the  stairs  and  en- 
tered the  nursery.  For  mammy  had  told  him 
I  was  faint,  and  he  had  hurried  to  my  relief. 
When  he  found  me  bathing  you  he  rang  vio- 
lently for  all  the  servants  within  call  and  as 
they  came  one  after  another  upon  the  scene  he 

414 


DOROTHrS  DISCOVERT 

challenged  each  to  know  why  their  mistress 
was  thus  left  to  do  servile  offices  for  herself. 
But  for  my  pleading  I  think  he  would  have 
taken  the  whole  company  of  them  out  to  the 
barn  and  chastised  them  with  his  own  hand, 
though  I  had  never  known  him  to  strike  a 
servant. 

*'  *  I  know  now  that  I  ought  to  have  explained 
the  matter  to  him.  I  ought  to  have  told  him 
how  the  mother  love  in  me  longed  to  do  some- 
thing for  you.  I  know  he  would  have  under- 
stood even  in  his  rage  over  what  he  regarded 
as  neglect  of  me,  and  he  would  have  sym- 
pathized with  my  feeling.  But  I  was  enraged 
at  the  baffling  of  my  purpose,  and  I  hastily  put 
on  a  riding  habit,  mounted  my  horse,  which, 
your  father,  seeing  my  purpose,  promptly  or- 
dered brought  to  the  block,  and  rode  away,  un- 
attended except  by  a  negro  groom.  For  when 
your  father  offered  his  escort  I  declined  it, 
begging  him  to  let  me  ride  alone. 

"  '  It  was  not  long  after  that  that  I  sat  hour 
after  hour  by  your  cradle,  composing  a  lullaby 
which  should  be  altogether  your  own,  and  as 
worthy  of  you  as  I  could  make  it.  When  the 
words  and  the  music  were  complete  and  satis- 
fying to  my  soul,  I  began  singing  the  little 
song  to  you,  and  your  father,  whose  love  of 

415 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

music  was  intense,  seemed  entranced  with  it 
He  would  beg  me  often  to  sing  it,  and  to  play 
the  violin  accompaniment  I  had  composed  to 
go  with  it.  I  would  never  do  so  except  over 
your  cradle.  Understand  me,  child,  if  you  can 
understand  one  of  so  wayward  a  temper  as 
mine.  I  had  put  all  my  soul  into  that  lullaby. 
Every  word  in  it,  every  note  of  the  music, 
was  an  expression  of  my  mother  love — the 
best  there  was  in  me.  I  was  jealous  of  it  for 
you.  I  would  not  allow  even  your  father  to 
hear  a  note  of  that  outpouring  of  my  love 
for  my  child,  except  as  a  listener  while  I  sang 
and  played  for  you  alone.  So  your  cradle 
with  you  in  it  must  always  be  brought  before 
I  would  let  your  father  hear. 

"  *  One  day,  when  you  were  six  or  eight 
months  old,  we  had  a  houseful  of  guests,  as  we 
often  did  at  Pocahontas.  They  stayed  over 
night  of  course,  and  in  the  evening  when  I 
asked  their  indulgence  while  I  should  go  and 
sing  you  to  sleep,  your  father  madly  pleaded 
that  I  should  sing  and  play  the  lullaby  in  the 
drawing  room  in  order  that  the  guests  might 
hear  what  he  assured  them  was  his  supreme 
favorite  among  all  musical  compositions.  I 
suppose  I  was  in  a  more  than  usually  complais- 
ant mood.     At  any  rate,  I  allowed  myself  to 

416 


N-  THA  T  MUSIC  MY  SOUL  LAID  ITSELF  BARE  TO 
YOURS  AND  FRA  YED  FOR  YOUR  LOVE.'' 


o    "  ;  *1  -  i  •  •  I^  ,     *  ••        t 


DOROTHrS  DISCOVERT 

be  persuaded  against  my  will,  and  mammy 
brought  you  in,  in  your  cradle.  I  remember 
that  you  had  a  little  pink  sack  over  your  night 
gown — a  thing  I  had  surreptitiously  knitted 
for  you  without  anybody's  knowledge,  and 
without  even  the  touch  of  a  servant's  hand. 

"  '  You  were  crowing  with  glee  at  the  lights 
and  the  great,  flaring  fire.  Everybody  in  the 
room  wanted  to  caress  you,  but  I  peremptorily 
ordered  them  off,  and  took  you  for  a  time  into 
my  own  arms.  At  last,  when  the  lights  were 
turned  down  at  my  command,  and  the  firelight 
hidden  behind  a  screen,  I  took  the  violin — a 
rare  old  instrument  for  which  your  father  had 
paid  a  king's  ransom — and  began  to  play.  Af- 
ter the  prelude  had  been  twice  played,  I  began 
to  sing.  Never  in  my  life  had  I  been  so  over- 
whelmingly conscious  of  you — so  completely 
unconscious  of  everybody  else  in  the  world.  I 
played  and  sang  only  to  my  child.  All  other 
human  beings  were  nonexistent.  I  played  with 
a  perfection  of  which  I  had  never  for  a  moment 
thought  myself  capable.  I  sang  with  a  tender- 
ness which  I  could  never  have  commanded  had 
I  been  conscious  for  the  time  of  any  other  ex- 
istence than  your  own.  In  that  music  my  soul 
laid  itself  bare  to  yours  and  prayed  for  your 
love.    I  told  you  in  every  tone  all  that  a  mother 

417 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

love  means — all  that  an  intensely  emotional 
woman  is  capable  of  feeling;  I  gave  free  rein 
to  all  there  was  in  me  of  passion,  and  made  all 
of  it  your  own.  I  was  in  an  ecstasy.  I  was 
entranced.  My  soul  was  transfigured  and  all 
was  wrought  into  the  music. 

"  *  In  the  midst  of  it  all  someone  whispered  a 
cold  blooded,  heartlessly  appreciative  comment 
upon  my  playing,  or  the  music,  or  my  voice, 
or  the  execution,  or  something  else — it  matters 
not  what.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing  that  people 
say  for  politeness'  sake  when  some  screeching 
girl  sings  "  Hear  Me,  Norma."  It  wakened  me 
instantly  from  my  trance.  It  brought  me  back 
to  myself.  It  revealed  to  me  how  completely 
I  had  been  wasting  the  sacred  things  of  my 
soul  upon  a  company  of  Philistines.  It  filled 
me  with  a  wrath  that  considered  not  conse- 
quences. I  ceased  to  play.  I  seized  the  pre- 
cious violin  by  its  neck — worn  smooth  by  the 
touch  of  artist  hands — and  dashed  it  to  pieces 
over  the  piano.  Then  I  snatched  my  baby  from 
the  cradle  and  retreated  to  your  nursery,  where 
I  double  locked  the  door,  and  refused  to  admit 
anybody  but  mammy,  whose  afifection  for  you 
I  felt,  had  been  wounded  as  sorely  as  my  own. 
I  sent  your  father  word  that  I  would  pass  the 
night  in  the  nursery,  and  at  daylight  I  left  home 

418 


DOROTHrS  DISCOFERT 

forever,  taking  you  and  mammy  with  me  in 
the  carriage. 

"  *  I  had  taken  pains  to  learn  that  your  father 
had  been  summoned  that  night,  on  an  emer- 
gency call,  to  the  bedside  of  a  patient,  ten  miles 
away.  This  gave  me  my  opportunity.  With 
you  in  my  arms  and  mammy  by  my  side,  I 
drove  to  Richmond,  and  sending  the  carriage 
back,  I  drew  what  money  there  was  to  my  credit 
in  the  bank,  and  took  the  steamer  sailing  that 
day  for  New  York.  All  this  was  seventeen 
years  ago,  remember,  when  there  were  no  rail- 
roads of  importance,  and  no  quicker  way  of 
going  from  Richmond  to  New  York  than  by 
the  infrequently  sailing  steamers.  It  was  in 
the  early  forties. 

"  '  Your  father  had  loaded  my  dressing  case 
with  splendid  jewels,  in  the  selection  of  which 
his  taste  was  unusually  good.  I  left  them  all 
behind,  all  but  this  ring,  which  he  had  given 
me  when  you  were  born  and  asked  me  to  regard 
as  his  thank  offering  for  you.  I  have  kept  it 
all  these  years.  I  have  suffered  and  starved 
many  times  rather  than  profane  it  by  pawning, 
though  often  my  need  has  been  so  sore  that  I 
have  had  to  put  even  my  clothes  in  pledge  for 
the  money  with  which  to  buy  a  dinner  of  bread 
and  red  herrings. 

419 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

" '  I  had  money  enough  at  first,  for  your 
father's  generosity  had  made  my  bank  deposit 
large.  But  I  had  to  spend  the  money  in  keeping 
myself  hidden  away  with  you,  and  I  could  not 
earn  more  by  my  music,  as  that  would  make  me 
easily  found.  It  was  then  that  I  translated  my 
name.  Mammy  remained  with  me,  caring  for 
nothing  in  the  world  but  you. 

"  '  It  was  several  years  before  your  father 
found  me  out.  I  was  shocked  and  distressed  at 
the  way  in  which  sorrow  had  written  its  signa- 
ture upon  his  face.  I  loved  him  then  far  better 
than  I  had  ever  done  before.  For  the  first  time 
I  fully  understood  how  greatly  good  and  noble 
he  was.  But  I  would  not,  I  could  not,  go  back 
with  him  to  the  home  I  had  disgraced.  I  could 
have  borne  all  the  scorn  and  contempt  with 
which  his  friends  would  have  looked  upon  me. 
I  could  have  faced  all  that  defiantly  and  with 
an  erect  head,  giving  scorn  for  scorn  and  con- 
tempt for  contempt,  where  I  knew  that  my  cen- 
sors were  such  only  because  in  their  common- 
placeness  they  could  not  understand  a  nature 
like  mine  or  even  believe  in  its  impulses.  But 
I  could  not  bear  to  go  back  to  Pocahontas  and 
witness  the  pity  with  which  everybody  there 
would  look  upon  him. 

"  *  I  resisted  all  his  entreaties  for  my  return, 

420 


DOROTHrS  DISCOVERT 

but  for  your  sake  I  tore  my  heart  out  by  con- 
senting to  give  you  up  to  him.  You  were 
rapidly  growing  in  intelligence  and  I  perfectly 
knew  that  such  bringing  up  as  I  could  give 
you  would  ruin  your  life  in  one  way  or  an- 
other. Never  mind  the  painful  memory  of  all 
that.  I  consented  at  last  to  let  your  father  take 
you  back  to  Pocahontas  and  bring  you  up  in 
a  way  suited  to  your  birth  and  condition. 
Mammy  went  with  you  of  course.  Your  father 
begged  for  the  privilege  of  providing  for  my 
support  in  comfort  while  I  should  live,  but  I 
refused.  I  begged  him  to  go  into  the  courts 
and  free  himself  from  me.  He  could  have  got 
his  divorce  in  Virginia  upon  the  ground  of  my 
desertion.     I  shall  never  forget    his    answer. 

*  When  I  married  you,  Dorothy ' — for  your 
name,  my  child,  is  the  same  as  my  own — 

*  When  I  married  you,  Dorothy,  it  was  not 
during  good  behavior  but  forever.  You  are  my 
wife,  and  you  will  be  always  the  one  woman  I 
love,  the  one  woman  whose  name  I  will  protect 
at  all  hazards  and  all  costs.  No  complaint  of 
you  has  ever  passed  my  lips.  I  have  suffered  no 
human  being  to  say  aught  to  your  hurt  in  my 
presence  or  within  my  knowledge.  Nor  shall 
I  to  the  end.  You  are  my  wife.  I  love  you. 
That  is  all  of  it' 

421 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  *  He  went  away  sorrowful,  leaving  me 
broken  hearted.  I  could  appear  in  public  now 
and  I  returned  to  my  profession.  The  beauty 
which  had  been  so  great  an  aid  to  me  before, 
was  impaired,  and  the  old  vivacity  was  gone. 
But  I  could  play  still  and  sing,  and  with  my 
violin  and  my  voice  I  easily  earned  enough  for 
all  my  wants,  until  I  got  the  scar.  After  that  I 
sank  into  a  wretched  poverty,  and  was  glad 
at  last  to  secure  employment  as  a  stage  dresser. 
My  illness  here  has  lost  me  that — .' 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  any  more.  Cousin  Arthur. 
It  pains  me  too  much.  But  I  am  going  to  take 
my  mother  with  me  to  America  and  provide  for 
her  in  some  way  that  she  will  permit.  She  has 
recovered  from  the  surgery  now,  and  I  have 
simply  taken  possession  of  her.  She  refuses  to 
go  to  Pocahontas,  or  in  any  other  way  to  take 
her  position  as  my  father's  widow.  But  if  this 
war  comes,  as  you  fear  it  will,  she  has  decided 
to  go  into  service  as  a  field  nurse,  and  you  must 
arrange  that  for  her. 

"  I  understand  now  why  my  father  forbade 
me  to  learn  music,  and  why  he  taught  me  that  a 
woman  must  have  a  master.  I  can  even  guess 
what  Jefferson  Peyton  meant  when  I  rejected 
his  suit.  My  father,  I  suppose,  planned  to  pro- 
vide a  master  for  me;  but  I  decline  to  serve 

422 


DOROTHrS  DISCOVERT 

the  one  he  selected.  I  am  a  woman  and  a  proud 
one.  I  will  never  consent  to  be  disposed  of  in 
marriage  by  the  orders  of  other  people  as  prin- 
cesses and  other  chattel  women  are.  But,  oh, 
you  cannot  know  how  sorrowful  my  soul  is, 
and  how  I  long  to  be  at  home  again !  I  hope 
the  war  will  come.  That  is  wicked  in  me,  I 
suppose,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  I  must  have 
occupation  or  I  shall  go  mad.  I  shall  set  to 
work  at  once,  on  my  return,  fitting  up  our 
laboratory,  and  there  I'll  find  work  enough  to 
fill  all  my  hours,  and  it  will  be  useful,  humane, 
patriotic  work,  such  as  it  is  worth  a  woman's 
while  to  do." 


423 


XXXV 

THE  BIRTH  OF  WAR 

/T  was  the  seventeenth  of  April,  1861.  It 
was  the  fateful  day  on  which  the  great- 
est, the  most  terrible,  the  most  disas- 
trous of  modern  wars  was  born. 

On  that  day  the  long  struggle  of  devoted 
patriots  to  keep  Virginia  in  the  Union  and  to 
throw  all  her  influence  into  the  scale  of  peace, 
had  ended  in  failure. 

A  few  days  before.  Fort  Sumter  had  been 
bombarded  and  had  fallen.  Still  the  Virginia 
convention  had  resisted  all  attempts  to  drag  or 
force  the  Mother  State  into  secession.  Then 
had  come  Mr.  Lincoln's  call  upon  Virginia  for 
her  quota  of  troops  with  which  to  make  war 
upon  the  seceding  sister  states  of  the  South  and 
the  alternative  of  secession  or  dishonor  pre- 
sented itself  to  this  body  of  Union  men.  They 
decided  at  once,  and  on  that  seventeenth  day 
of  April  they  made  a  great  war  possible  and 
indeed  inevitable,  by  adopting  an  ordinance  of 
secession  and  casting  Virginia's  fate,  Virginia's 

424 


THE  BIRTH  OF  WAR 

strength,  and  Virginia's  matchless  influence, 
into  the  scale  of  disunion  and  war. 

Richmond  was  in  delirium — a  delirium 
which  moved  men  to  ecstatic  joy  or  profound 
grief,  or  deeply  rooted  apprehension,  accord- 
ing to  their  several  temperaments.  The 
thoughtless  went  parading  excitedly  up  and 
down  the  streets  singing  songs,  and  making  a 
gala  time  of  it,  wearing  cockades  by  day  and 
carrying  torches  by  night,  precisely  as  if  some 
long  hoped  for  and  supremely  desired  good  for- 
tune had  come  upon  the  land  of  their  birth. 
The  more  thoughtful  looked  on  and  kept  silent. 
But  mostly  the  spirit  manifested  was  one  of 
grim  determination  to  meet  fate — be  it  good  or 
bad — with  stout  hearts  and  calmly  resolute 
minds. 

In  that  purpose  all  men  were  as  one  now. 
The  vituperation  with  which  the  people's  repre- 
sentatives in  the  convention  had  been  daily  as- 
sailed for  their  hesitation  to  secede,  was  abso- 
lutely hushed.  The  sentiment  of  affection  for 
the  Union  which  had  been  growing  for  seventy 
years  and  more,  gave  way  instantly  to  a  deter- 
mination to  win  a  new  independence  or  sacri- 
fice all  in  the  attempt. 

Jubal  A.  Early,  who  had  from  the  beginning 
opposed  secession  with  all  his  might,  reckon- 

425 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

ing  it  not  only  insensate  folly  but  a  political 
crime  as  well,  voted  against  it  to  the  last,  and 
then,  instantly  sent  to  Gov.  Letcher  a  tender  of 
his  services  in  the  war,  in  whatever  capacity 
his  state  might  see  fit  to  employ  him.  In  the 
same  way  William  C.  Wickham,  an  equally  de- 
termined opponent  of  secession,  quitted  his  seat 
in  the  convention  only  to  make  hurried  prepa- 
ration for  his  part  as  a  military  leader  on  the 
Southern  side. 

No  longer  did  men  discuss  the  merits  and 
demerits  of  one  policy  or  another ;  there  could 
be  but  one  policy  now,  one  course  of  action, 
one  sentiment  of  devotion  to  Virginia,  and  an 
undying  determination  to  maintain  her  honor 
at  all  hazards  and  at  all  costs. 

The  state  of  mind  that  was  universal  among 
Virginians  at  that  time,  has  never  been  quite 
understood  in  other  parts  of  the  Union.  These 
men*s  traditions  extended  back  to  a  time  before 
ever  the  Union  was  thought  of,  before  ever  Vir- 
ginia had  invited  her  sister  states  to  unite  with 
her,  in  a  convention  at  Annapolis,  called  for  the 
purpose  of  forming  that  "  more  perfect  Union," 
from  which,  in  1861,  Virginia  decided  to  with- 
draw. Devotion  to  the  Union  had  been^ 
through  long  succeeding  decades,  as  earnest 
and  as  passionate  in  Virginia  as  the  like  devo- 

426 


THE  BIRTH  OF  WAR 

tion  had  been  in  any  other  part  of  the  country. 
Through  three  great  wars  the  Virginians  had 
faltered  not  nor  failed  when  called  upon  to  con- 
tribute of  their  substance  or  their  manhood  to 
the  national  defence. 

The  Virginians  loved  the  Union  of  which 
their  state  had  been  so  largely  the  instigator, 
and  they  were  self-sacrificingly  loyal  to  it.  But 
they  held  their  allegiance  to  it  to  be  solely  the 
result  of  their  state's  allegiance,  and  when  their 
state  withdrew  from  it,  they  held  themselves 
absolved  from  all  their  obligations  respecting 
it.  Their  very  loyalty  to  it  had  been  a  prompt- 
ing of  their  state,  and  when  their  state  elected 
to  transfer  its  allegiance  to  another  Confeder- 
acy, they  regarded  themselves  as  bound  by 
every  obligation  of  law,  of  honor,  of  tradition, 
of  history  and  of  manhood  itself,  to  obey  the 
mandate. 

Return  we  now  to  Richmond,  on  that  fateful 
seventeenth  day  of  April,  1861.  There  had 
been  extreme  secessionists,  and  moderate  ones, 
uncompromising  Union  men,  and  Union  men 
under  conditions  of  qualification.  There  were 
none  such  when  that  day  was  ended.  Waitman 
T.  Willey  and  a  few  others  from  the  Panhandle 
region,  who  had  served  in  the  convention,  de- 
parted quickly  for  their  homes,  to  take  part 

427 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

with  the  North  in  the  impending  struggle,  in 
obedience  to  their  convictions  of  right.  The 
rest  accepted  the  issue  as  determinative  of  Vir- 
ginia's course,  and  ordered  their  own  courses 
accordingly.  They  were,  before  all  and  above 
all  Virginians,  and  Virginia  had  decided  to  cast 
in  her  lot  with  the  seceding  Southern  States. 
There  was  an  end  of  controversy.  There  was 
an  end  of  all  division  of  sentiment.  The  su- 
preme moment  had  come,  and  all  men  stood 
shoulder  to  shoulder  to  meet  the  consequences. 


428 


XXXVI 

THE  OLD  DOROTHY  AND  THE  NEW 

JUST  as  Arthur  Brent  was  quitting  his 
seat  in  the  convention  on  that  day  so 
pregnant  of  historic  happenings,  a 
page  put  a  note  into  his  hands.     It 
was  from  Edmonia,  and  it  read : 

"  We  have  just  arrived  and  are  at  the  Ex- 
change Hotel  and  Ballard  House.  We  are  all 
perfectly  well,  though  positively  dazed  by  what 
you  statesmen  in  the  convention  have  done  to- 
day. I  can  hardly  think  of  the  thing  seriously 
— of  Virginia  withdrawing  from  the  Union 
which  her  legislature  first  proposed  to  the 
other  states,  which  her  statesmen — Washing- 
ton, Jefferson,  Marshall,  Madison,  Mason,  and 
the  rest  so  largely  contributed  to  form,  and  over 
which  her  Washington,  Jefferson,  Madison, 
Monroe,  Harrison  and  Tyler  have  presided  in 
war  and  peace.  And  yet  nothing  could  be  more 
serious.  It  seems  to  me  a  bad  dream  from 
which  we  shall  presently  wake  to  find  ourselves 
rejoicing  in  its  untruth. 

429  , 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  You  will  come  to  the  hotel  to  a  six  o'clock 
dinner,  of  course.  I  want  to  show  you  what  a 
woman  Dorothy  has  grown  to  be.  Poor  dear 
girl!  She  has  been  greatly  disturbed  by  the 
hearing  of  her  mother's  story,  and  she  is  a  trifle 
morbid  over  it.  However,  you'll  see  her  for 
yourself  this  evening.  We  were  charmingly 
considerate,  I  think  in  not  telegraphing  to  an- 
nounce our  coming.  We  shall  expect  you  to 
thank  us  properly  for  thus  refraining  from  dis- 
turbing you.  Come  to  the  hotel  the  moment 
your  public  duties  will  let  you." 

Arthur  hastily  left  the  convention  hall  and 
hurried  across  Capitol  Square  and  on  to  the 
big,  duplex  hostelry.  He  entered  on  the  Ex- 
change Hotel  side  and  learned  by  inquiry  at 
the  office  that  Edmonia's  rooms  were  in  the 
Ballard  House  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
It  had  begun  to  rain  and  he  had  neither  um- 
brella nor  overcoat,  having  forgotten  and  left 
both  in  the  cloak  room  of  the  convention.  So 
he  mounted  the  stairway,  and  set  out  to  cross 
by  the  covered  crystal  bridge  that  spanned  the 
street  connecting  the  two  great  caravansaries. 
The  bridge  was  full  of  people,  gathered  there 
to  look  at  the  pageant  in  the  streets  below, 
where  companies  of  volunteer  cavalry  from 
every  quarter  of  eastern  Virginia  were  march- 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 

ing  past,  on  their  way  to  the  newly«established 
camp  of  instruction  on  the  Ashland  race  track. 
For  Governor  Letcher  had  so  far  anticipated 
the  inevitable  result  of  the  long  debate  as  to 
establish  two  instruction  camps  and  to  accept 
the  tenders  of  service  which  were  daily  sent  to 
him  by  the  volunteer  companies  in  every  county. 

As  Arthur  was  making  his  way  through  the 
throng  of  sight-seers  on  the  glass  bridge  some 
movement  in  the  crowd  brought  him  into  con- 
tact with  a  gentlewoman,  to  whom  he  hastily 
turned  with  apologetic  intent. 

It  was  Dorothy !  Not  the  Dorothy  who  had 
bidden  him  good-by  a  year  ago,  but  a  new, 
a  statelier  Dorothy,  a  Dorothy  with  the  stamp 
of  travel  and  society  upon  her,  a  Dorothy  who 
had  learned  ease  and  self-possession  and  dig- 
nity by  habit  in  the  grandest  drawing  rooms  in 
all  the  world.  Yet  the  old  Dorothy  was  there 
too — the  Dorothy  of  straight-looking  eyes  and 
perfect  truthfulness,  and  for  the  moment  the 
new  Dorothy  forgot  herself,  giving  place  to 
the  old. 

"  Oh,  Master !  "  she  cried,  impulsively  seiz- 
ing both  his  hands,  and,  completely  forgetful 
of  the  crowd  about  her,  letting  the  glad  tears 
slip  out  between  her  eyelashes.  "  I  was  not 
looking  at  the  soldiers ;  I  was  looking  for  you, 

4^1 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

and  wondering  when  you  would  come.  Oh,  I 
am  so  happy,  and  so  glad !  " 
r  An  instant  later  the  new  Dorothy  reasserted 
herself,  and  Arthur  did  not  at  all  like  the 
change.  The  girl  became  so  far  self-conscious 
as  to  grow  dignified,  and  in  very  shame  over 
her  impulsive  outbreak,  she  exaggerated  her 
dignity  and  her  propriety  of  demeanor  into 
something  like  coldness  and  stately  hauteur. 

"  How  you  have  grown !  "  Arthur  exclaimed 
when  he  had  led  her  to  one  of  the  parlors  al- 
most deserted  now  for  the  sight-seeing  vantage 
ground  of  the  bridge. 

"  No,"  she  answered  as  she  might  have  done 
in  a  New  York  or  a  Paris  drawing  room,  ad- 
dressing some  casual  acquaintance.  "  I  have 
not  grown  a  particle.  I  was  quite  grown  up 
before  I  left  Virginia.  It  is  a  Paris  gown, 
perhaps.  The  Parisian  dressmakers  know  all 
the  art  of  bringing  out  a  woman's  *  points,'  and 
they  hold  my  height  and  my  slenderness  to  be 
my  best  claims  upon  attention." 

Arthur  felt  as  if  she  had  struck  him.  He 
was  about  to  remonstrate,  when  Edmonia  broke 
in  upon  the  conversation  with  her  greeting. 
But  Dorothy  had  seen  his  face  and  read  all  that 
it  expressed.  The  old  Dorothy  was  tempted  to 
ask  his  forgiveness ;  the  new  Dorothy  dismissed 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 

the  thought  as  quite  impossible.  She  had  al- 
ready sufficiently  "  compromised  "  herself  by 
her  impulsiveness,  and  to  make  amends  she  put 
stays  upon  her  dignity  and  throughout  the  even- 
ing they  showed  no  sign  of  bending. 

Arthur  was  tortured  by  all  this.  Edmonia 
was  delighted  over  it.  So  differently  do  a  man 
and  a  woman  sometimes  interpret  another 
woman's  attitude  and  conduct. 

Arthur  was  compelled  to  leave  them  at  nine 
to  meet  Governor  Letcher,  who  had  summoned 
him  for  consultation  with  respect  to  the  organi- 
zation of  a  surgical  staff,  of  which  he  purposed 
to  make  Arthur  Brent  one  of  the  chiefs.  Be- 
fore leaving  he  asked  as  to  Edmonia's  and  Dor- 
othy's home-going  plans.  Learning  that  they 
intended  to  go  by  the  eight  o'clock  train  the 
next  morning,  he  said : 

"  Very  well,  I'll  send  Dick  up  by  the  mid- 
night train  to  have  the  Wyanoke  carriage  at 
the  station  to  meet  you." 

"  Is  Dick  with  you  ?  "  Dorothy  asked  with 
more  of  enthusiasm  than  she  had  shown  since 
her  outbreak  on  the  bridge.  "  How  I  do  want 
to  see  Dick!  Can't  you  send  him  here  before 
train  time,  please?  " 

Already  grieved  and  resentful,  Arthur  was 
stung  by  the  manner  of  this  reauest.    For  the 

433 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

moment  he  was  disposed  to  interpret  it  as  an 
intended  affront.  He  quickly  dismissed  that 
thought  and  answered  with  a  laugh : 

"  Yes,  Dorothy,  he  shall  come  to  you  at  once. 
Perhaps  he  has  a  '  song  ballad  '  ready  for  your 
greeting.  At  any  rate  he  at  least  will  pleasantly 
remind  you  of  the  old  life." 

"  I  wonder  why  he  put  it  in  that  way — why 
he  said  '  he  at  least/  "  said  Dorothy  when  Ar- 
thur had  gone  and  the  two  women  were  left 
alone. 

"  I  think  I  know,"  Edmonia  answered.  But 
she  did  not  offer  the  explanation.  Neither  did 
Dorothy  ask  for  it. 


434 


XXXVII 

AT  WYANOKE 

/T  was  three  days  later  before  Arthur 
Brent  was  able  to  leave  the  duties  that 
detained  him  in  Richmond.  When  at 
last  he  found  himself  free,  one  of  the  infrequent 
trains  of  that  time  had  just  gone,  and  there 
would  be  no  other  for  many  hours  to  come. 
His  impatience  to  be  at  Wyanoke  was  uncon- 
trollable. For  three  days  he  had  brooded  over 
Dorothy's  manner  to  him  at  the  hotel,  and  won- 
dered, with  much  longing,  whether  she  might 
not  meet  him  differently  at  home.  He  recalled 
the  frankly  impulsive  eagerness  with  which  she 
had  greeted  him  in  the  first  moment  of  their 
meeting,  and  he  argued  with  himself  that  her 
later  reserve  might  have  been  simply  a  reaction 
from  that  first  outburst  of  joy,  a  maidenly  im- 
pulse to  atone  to  her  pride  for  the  lapse  into 
old,  childlike  manners.  This  explanation 
seemed  a  very  probable  one,  and  yet — he  re- 
flected that  there  were  no  strangers  standing 
by  when  she  had  relapsed  into  a  reserve  that 

435 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

bordered  upon  hauteur — nobody  before  whom 
she  need  have  hesitated  to  be  cordial.  He  had 
asked  her  about  her  mother,  thinking  thus  to 
awaken  some  warmth  of  feeling  in  her  and  re- 
establish a  footing  of  sympathy.  But  her  reply 
had  been  a  business-like  statement  that  Madame 
Le  Sud  would  remain  in  New  York  for  a  few 
days,  to  secure  the  clothing  she  would  need  for 
her  field  ministrations  to  the  wounded,  after 
which  she  would  take  some  very  quiet  lodging 
in  Richmond  until  duty  should  call  her. 

Altogether  Arthur  Brent's  impatience  to 
know  the  worst  or  best — whichever  it  might  be 
— grew  greater  with  every  hour,  and  when  he 
learned  that  he  must  idly  wait  for  several  hours 
for  the  next  train,  he  mounted  Gimlet  and  set 
out  upon  the  long  horseback  journey,  for  which 
Gimlet,  weary  of  the  stable,  manifested  an 
eagerness  quite  equal  to  his  own. 

When  the  young  man  dismounted  at  Wya- 
noke,  Dorothy  was  the  first  to  meet  him,  and 
there  was  something  in  her  greeting  that 
puzzled  him  even  more  than  her  manner  on  the 
former  occasion  had  done.  For  Dorothy  too 
had  been  thinking  of  the  hotel  episode,  and  re- 
penting herself  of  her  coldness  on  that  occasion. 
She  understood  it  even  less  than  Arthur  did. 


AT  WYANOKE 

She  had  not  intended  to  be  reserved  with  him, 
and  several  times  during  that  evening  she  had 
made  an  earnest  effort  to  be  natural  and  cordial 
instead,  but  always  without  success,  for  some 
reason  that  she  could  not  understand.  So  she 
had  carefully  planned  to  greet  him  on  his  home- 
coming, with  all  the  old  affection  and  without 
reserve.  To  that  end  she  had  framed  in  her 
own  mind  the  things  she  would  say  to  him  and 
the  manner  of  their  saying.  Now  that  he  had 
come,  she  said  the  things  she  had  planned  to 
say,  but  she  could  not  adopt  the  manner  she 
had  intended. 

The  result  was  something  that  would  have 
been  ludicrous  had  it  been  less  painful  to  both 
the  parties  concerned.  It  left  Arthur  worse 
puzzled  than  ever  and  obviously  pained.  It 
sent  Dorothy  to  her  chamber  for  that  "  good 
cry,'*  which  feminine  human  nature  holds  to  be 
a  panacea. 

At  dinner  Dorothy  "  rattled "  rather  than 
conversed,  as  young  women  are  apt  to  do  when 
they  are  embarrassed  and  are  determined  not  to 
show  their  embarrassment.  She  seemed  bent 
upon  alternately  amusing  and  astonishing  Aunt 
Polly,  with  her  grotesquely  distorted  descrip- 
tions of  things  seen  and  people  encountered 

437 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

during  her  travels.  Arthur  took  only  so  much 
part  in  the  conversation  as  a  man  thinking 
deeply,  but  disposed  to  be  polite,  might. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed  he  lighted  a 
cigar  and  went  to  the  stables  and  barns,  avow- 
edly to  inquire  about  matters  on  the  planta- 
tion. 

When  he  returned,  full  of  a  carefully  formed 
purpose  to  "  have  it  out "  with  Dorothy,  he 
found  guests  in  the  house  who  had  driven  to 
Wyanoke  for  supper  and  a  late  moonlight 
drive  homeward.  From  that  moment  until  the 
time  of  the  guests'  departure,  he  was  eagerly 
beset  with  questions  concerning  the  political 
situation  and  the  prospects  of  war. 

"  The  war  is  already  on,"  he  answered,  "  and 
we  are  not  half  prepared  for  it.  Fortunately 
the  North  is  in  no  better  case,  and  still  more 
fortunately,  we  are  to  have  with  us  the  ablest 
soldier  in  America." 

"Who?    Beauregard?" 

"  No,  Robert  E.  Lee,  to  whom  the  Federal 
administration  a  little  while  ago  offered  the 
command  of  all  the  United  States  armies.  He 
has  resigned  and  is  now  in  Richmond  to  organ- 
ize our  forces." 

Arthur  talked  much,  too,  of  the  seriousness 
of  the  war,  of  the  certainty  in  his  mind,  that  it 

438 


AT  WTANOKE 

would  last  for  years,  taxing  the  resources  of 
the  South  to  the  point  of  exhaustion.  For  this 
some  of  his  guests  called  him  a  pessimist,  and 
applauded  the  prediction  of  young  Jeff  Peyton, 
that  "  within  twenty  days  we  shall  have  twenty 
thousand  men  on  the  Potomac,  and  after  per- 
haps one  battle  of  some  consequence  we  shall 
dictate  terms  of  peace  in  Washington."  He 
added :  "  You  must  make  haste  to  get  into 
the  service.  Doctor,  if  you  expect  to  see  the 
fun." 

"I  do  not  expect  to  see  the  fun,"  Arthur 
answered  quietly.  "  I  do  not  see  the  humorous 
side  of  slaughter.  But  in  my  judgment  you, 
sir,  will  have  ample  time  in  which  to  wear  out 
many  uniforms  as  gorgeous  as  the  one  you 
now  have  on,  before  peace  is  concluded  at 
Washington  or  anywhere  else.  An  army  of 
twenty  thousand  men  will  be  looked  upon  as  a 
mere  detachment  before  this  struggle  is  over. 
We  shall  hear  the  tramp  of  armies  numbering 
hundreds  of  thousands,  and  their  tramping  will 
desolate  Virginia  fields  that  are  now  as  fair  as 
any  on  earth.  We  shall  see  historic  mansions 
vanish  in  smoke,  and  thousands  of  happy 
homes  made  prey  by  the  demon  War.  War 
was  never  yet  a  pastime  for  any  but  the  most 
brutish  men.     It  is  altogether  horrible;  it  is 

439 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

utterly  hellish,  if  the  ladies  will  pardon  the 
term,  and  only  fools  can  welcome  it  as  a  holi- 
day pursuit.  Unhappily  there  are  many  such 
on  both  sides  of  the  Potomac." 

As  he  paused  there  was  a  complete  hush 
among  the  company  for  thirty  seconds  or  so. 
Then  Dorothy  advanced  to  Arthur,  took  his 
hand,  and  said : 

"Thank  you,  Master!" 

Arthur  answered  only  by  a  look.  But  it 
was  a  look  that  told  her  all  that  she  wanted  to 
know. 

When  the  guests  were  gone,  Dorothy  pre- 
pared for  a  hasty  retreat  to  her  room,  but 
Arthur  called  to  her  as  she  reached  the  land- 
ing of  the  stairs,  and  asked : 

"  Shall  we  have  one  of  our  old  time  horse- 
back rides  '  soon  '  in  the  morning,  Dorothy?  " 

"  Yes.  It  delights  me  to  hear  our  Virginia 
phrase  *  soon  in  the  morning.'  Thank  you, 
I'll  be  ready.    Good  night." 


440 


XXXVIII 

SOON  IN  THE  MORNING 

/T  was  Dick  who  brought  the  horses  on 
that  next  morning — Dick  grown  into 
a  tall  and  comely  fellow,  and  no  longer 
dressed  in  the  careless  fashion  of  a  year  ago. 
For  had  not  Dick  spent  two  months  in  Rich- 
mond as  his  master's  body  servant  ?  And  had 
he  not  there  developed  his  native  dandy  in- 
stincts? And  had  not  the  sight  of  the  well- 
nigh  universal  uniforms  of  that  time  bred  in 
him  a  great  longing  to  wear  some  sort  of  "  sol- 
dier clothes  "  ? 

His  master  had  indulged  the  fancy.  He 
meant  to  keep  Dick  as  his  body  servant  through- 
out the  coming  war,  and,  at  any  rate  while  he 
sat  as  a  member  of  that  august  body  the  con- 
stitutional convention,  he  wanted  his  "  boy  " 
to  present  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman's 
servitor.  So,  when  he  took  Dick  to  a  tailor  to 
be  dressed  in  suitable  fashion,  he  readily  ac- 
quiesced in  the  young  negro's  preference  for  a 

441 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 

suit  of  velveteen  and  corduroys  with  brass  but- 
tons shining  all  over  it  like  the  stars  in  Ursa 
Major.  The  tailor,  recognizing  the  shapeliness 
of  the  young  negro's  person  as  something  that 
afforded  him  an  opportunity  to  display  his  skill 
in  the  matter  of  "  fit "  had  brought  all  his  art 
to  bear  upon  the  task  of  perfecting  Dick's 
livery. 

Dick  in  his  turn  had  employed  strategy 
in  securing  an  opportunity  to  show  him- 
self in  his  new  glory  to  his  "  Mis'  Doro- 
thy." Ben,  the  hostler  who  usually  brought 
the  horses  had  recently  "  got  religion  " — a 
bilious  process  which  at  that  time  was  apt 
to  render  a  negro  specially  indifferent  to  the 
obligations  of  morality  with  respect  to  "  chick- 
ens fry  in'  size,"  and  gloomily  unfit  for  the  per- 
formance of  his  ordinary  duties.  Dick  had 
labored  over  night  with  '*  Bro'  Ben,"  per- 
suading him  that  he  was  really  ill,  and  indu- 
cing him  to  swallow  two  blue  mass  pills — the 
which  Dick  had  adroitly  filched  from  the  medi- 
cine chest  in  the  laboratory.  And  as  Dick,  siire 
his  service  "  endurin'  of  de  feveh,"  had  en- 
joyed the  reputation  of  knowing  "  'mos  as 
much  as  a  sho'  'nuff  doctah,"  Ben  readily  ac- 
quiesced in  Dick's  suggestion  that  he,  Ben, 
should  lie  abed  in  the  morning,  Dick  kindly 

442 


SOON  IN  THE  MORNING 

volunteering  to  feed  and  curr^  his  mules  for 
him  and  "  bring  de  hosses." 

Dick's  strategy  accomplished  its  purpose, 
and  so  it  was  Dick,  resplendent  in  a  livery  that 
might  have  done  credit  to  a  field  marshal  on 
dress  parade,  who  presented  himself  at  the  gate 
that  morning  in  charge  of  his  master's  and 
Dorothy's  mounts. 

Arthur  looked  at  him  and  asked : 

"  Why  are  you  in  full-dress  uniform  today, 
General  Dick?" 

"  It's  my  respec'ful  compliments  to  Mis' 
Dorothy,  sah,"  answered  the  boy. 

"  Thank  you,  Dick!  "  said  the  girl.  "  I  ap- 
preciate the  attention.    But  where  is  Ben  ?  " 

"  Bro'  Ben  he  dun  got  religion,  Mis'  Dorothy, 
an'  he  dun  taken  two  blue  pills  las'  night, 
an  — 

"  Give  him  a  dose  of  Epsom  salts  at  once, 
Dick,"  broke  in  Arthur,  "  or  he'll  be  salivated. 
And  don't  give  him  oxalic  acid  by  mistake. 
I'll  trouble  you  to  keep  your  fingers  out  of  the 
medicine  chest  hereafter.    Come,  Dorothy !  " 

But  as  Dorothy  was  about  to  put  her  foot 
into  Arthur's  hand  and  spring  from  it  into  the 
saddle,  Dick  drew  forth  a  white  handkerchief, 
heavily  perfumed  with  a  cooking  extract  of 
lemon,  and  offered  it  to  Dorothy,  saying: 

443 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

"  You  haint  rubbed  de  bosses,  Mis'  Dorothy, 
to  see  ef  dey*s  clean  'nuff  fer  dis  suspicious 
occasion." 

Dick  probably  meant  "  auspicious,"  but  he 
was  accustomed,  both  in  prose  and  in  verse,  to 
require  complaisant  submission  to  his  will  on 
the  part  of  the  English  language. 

"  Did  you  clean  them,  Dick  ?  "  asked  Dor- 
othy with  a  little  laugh. 

"  I'se  proud  to  say  I  did,"  answered  the  boy, 

"  Then  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  rub  them," 
she  replied.  "  You  always  do  your  work  well. 
Your  master  tells  me  so.  And  now  I  want  you 
to  take  this  handkerchief  of  mine,  and  keep  it 
for  your  own.  I  bought  it  in  Paris,  Dick. 
You  can  carry  it  in  your  breast  pocket,  with  a 
corner  of  the  lace  protruding — sticking  out, 
you  know.  And  if  you  will  come  to  me  when 
we  get  back  from  our  ride,  I'll  give  you  a 
bottle  of  something  better  than  a  cooking  ex- 
tract to  perfume  it  with." 

With  that  the  girl  handed  him  a  dainty,  lace- 
edged  mouchoir,  for  which  she  had  paid  half  a 
hundred  francs  in  Paris,  and  which  she  had 
carried  at  the  Tuileries. 

"  It  is  just  in  celebration  of  my  home-com- 
ing," she  said  to  Arthur  in  explanation,  "  and 

444 


SOON  IN  THE  MORNING 

because  we  are  going  to  have  one  of  our  old 
*  soon  in  the  morning  '  rides  together.'* 

As  she  mounted,  Dorothy  turned  to  Dick  and 
commanded : 

"  Turn  the  hounds  loose,  Dick,  and  put  them 
on  our  track."    Then  to  Arthur : 

''It  is  a  glorious  morning,  and  I  want  the 
dogs  to  enjoy  it." 

The  horses  were  full  of  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  morning.  They  broke  at  once  into  a  gallop, 
which  neither  of  the  riders  was  disposed  to  re- 
strain. Five  minutes  later  the  hounds,  bellow- 
ing as  they  followed  the  trail,  overtook  the 
riders.  Dorothy  brought  her  mare  upon  her 
haunches,  and  greeted  the  dogs  as  they  leaped 
to  caress  her  hands.  Then  she  cracked  her 
whip  and  blew  her  whistle,  and  sent  the  excited 
animals  to  heel,  with  moans  and  complainings 
on  their  part  that  they  were  thus  banished  from 
the  immediate  presence  of  their  beloved 
mistress. 

"  Your  dogs  still  love  and  obey  you,  Doro- 
thy," said  Arthur  as  they  resumed  their  ride 
more  soberly  than  before. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "They  are  better 
in  that  respect  than  women  are." 

Arthur  thought  he  understood.    At  any  rate 

445 


DOROTHY  SOUTH 

he  accepted  the  remark  as  one  implying  an 
apology,  and  he  saw  no  occasion  for  apology. 

"  Never  mind  that,"  he  said.  "  A  woman  is 
entitled  to  her  perfect  freedom.  Every  human 
being  born  into  this  world  has  an  absolute 
right  to  do  precisely  as  he  pleases,  so  long  as 
in  doing  as  he  pleases  he  does  not  trespass  upon 
or  abridge  the  equal  right  of  any  other  human 
being  to  do  as  he  pleases.  It  is  this  equality 
of  right  that  furnishes  the  foundation  of  all 
moral  codes  which  are  worthy  of  respect.  And 
this  equality  of  right  belongs  to  women  as  fully 
as  to  men." 

"  In  a  way,  yes,"  answered  Dorothy.  "  Yet  in 
another  way,  no.  I  control  my  hounds,  chiefly 
for  their  own  good.  My  right  to  control  them 
rests  upon  my  superior  knowledge  of  what 
their  conduct  ought  to  be.  It  is  the  same  way 
with  women.  They  do  not  know  as  much  as 
men  do,  concerning  what  their  conduct  ought 
to  be.  Take  my  dear  mother's  case  for  ex- 
ample. If  she  had  frankly  told  my  father 
that  she  could  not  be  happy  in  the  life 
into  which  he  had  brought  her,  that  in 
fact  it  tortured  her,  he  would  have  taken  her 
away  out  of  it.  Her  mistake  was  in  taking  the 
matter  into  her  own  hands.     She  needed  a 

446 


SOON  IN  THE  MORNING 

master.  She  ought  to  have  made  my  father 
her  master.  She  ought  to  have  told  him  what 
she  suffered,  and  why  she  suffered.  She  ought 
to  have  trusted  him  to  find  the  remedy.  Instead 
of  that — ^well,  you  know  the  story.  My  father 
loved  my  mother  with  all  his  soul.  She  loved 
him  in  return.  He  could  have  been  her  master, 
if  he  had  so  willed.  For  when  any  woman  loves 
any  man  that  man  has  only  to  assume  that  he  is 
her  master  in  order  to  be  so,  and  in  order  to 
make  her  supremely  happy  in  his  being  so.  If 
my  father  had  understood  that,  there  would 
have  been  no  stain  upon  me  now.'* 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Dorothy  ?  " 
asked  Arthur,  intensely,  as  the  girl  broke  into 
tears.  ''  There  is  no  stain  upon  you.  I  will 
horsewhip  anybody  that  shall  so  much  as  sug- 
gest such  a  thing." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  You  are  good  and  true  al- 
ways. But  think  of  it.  Cousin  Arthur.  My 
mother  is  in  hiding  in  Richmond,  because  of 
her  shame.  And  my  father  has  posthumously 
insulted  her — pure,  clean  woman  that  she  is — 
and  insulted  me,  too,  in  my  helplessness.  Let 
me  tell  you  all  about  it,  please.  Oh,  Cousin 
Arthur,  you  do  not  know  how  I  have  longed 
for  an  opportunity  to  tell  you!    You  alone  of 

447 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

all  people  in  this  world  are  broad  enough  to 
sympathize  with  me  in  my  wretchedness.  You 
alone  are  true  to  Truth  and  Justice  and  Right. 
Let  me  tell  you !  " 

"  Tell  me,  Dorothy/'  he  answered  tenderly. 
"  I  beg  of  you  tell  me  absolutely  all  that  is  in 
your  mind.  Tell  me  as  freely  as  you  told  me 
once  why  you  marked  a  watermelon  with  my 
initials.  But  please,  Dorothy,  do  not  tell  me 
anything  at  all,  unless  you  can  put  aside  the 
strange  reserve  that  you  have  lately  set  up  as  a 
barrier  between  us,  and  talk  to  me  in  the  old, 
free,  unconstrained  way.  It  was  in  hope  of 
that  that  I  asked  you  to  take  this  ride." 

She  replied,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  that. 
I  could  not  help  the  constraint,  and  it  pained 
me  as  greatly  as  it  distressed  you.  We  arc 
free  now,  on  our  horses.  We  can  talk  with- 
out restraint,  and  when  we  have  talked  the 
matter  out,  perhaps  you  will  understand. 
Listen,  then !  " 

She  waited  a  full  minute,  the  horses  walk- 
ing meanwhile,  before  she  resumed.  Finally 
Arthur  said :     "  I  am  listening,  Dorothy.*' 

Then  she  answered. 

"  My  mother  was  never  a  bad  woman, 
Arthur  Brent.  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
clearly  before  we  go  on.     She  abandoned  my 

448 


SOON  IN  THE  MORNING 

father  because  she  could  not  endure  the  life  he 
provided  for  her.  But  she  was  always  a  pure 
woman,  in  spite  of  all  her  surroundings  and 
conditions.  She  offered  freedom  to  my  father, 
but  she  asked  no  freedom  for  herself.  She 
made  no  complaint  of  him,  and  his  memory  is 
still  to  her  the  dearest  thing  on  earth.  It  is 
convention  alone  that  censures  her ;  convention 
alone  that  forbids  her  to  come  to  Pocahontas; 
convention  alone  that  refuses  to  me  permission 
to  love  her  openly  as  my  mother  and  to  honor 
her  as  such.  If  I  had  my  way,  I  should  bring 
her  to  Pocahontas,  and  set  up  housekeeping 
there ;  and  I  should  send  out  a  proclamation  to 
everybody,  saying  in  effect :  *  My  mother,  Mrs. 
South,  is  with  me.  You  who  shall  come 
promptly  to  pay  your  respects  to  her,  I  will 
count  my  friends.  All  the  rest  shall  be  my 
enemies.'  But  that  may  not  be.  My  mother 
forbids,  and  I  bow  to  my  mother's  command. 
Then  comes  my  father's  command,  and  to  that 
I  will  never  bow." 

"What  is  it,  Dorothy?" 

"  Aunt  Polly  has  shown  me  his  letter.  He 
tells  me  that  because  of  my  mother's  misbe- 
havior, he  has  great  fear  on  my  account.  He 
explains  that  he  forbids  me  to  learn  music  be- 
cause he  thought  it  was  music  that  led  my 

449 


DOROTHT  SOUTH 

mother  into  wrong  ways.  He  tells  me  that  in 
order  to  preserve  my  '  respectability/  he  has 
arranged  that  I  shall  marry  into  a  Virginia 
family  as  good  as  my  own,  and  as  if  to  make 
the  matter  of  my  inconsequence  as  detestably 
humiliating  as  possible  he  tells  me  as  I  learned 
before  and  wrote  to  you  from  Paris,  that  he  has 
betrothed  me  to  Jeff  Peyton.  If  there  had  been 
any  chance  that  I  would  submit  to  be  thus  dis- 
posed of  like  a  hogshead  of  tobacco  or  a  car- 
load of  wheat,  Jeff  Peyton's  conduct  would 
have  destroyed  it.  The  last  time  I  met  him  in 
Europe  you  remember,  he  threatened  me  with 
this  command  of  my  father,  and  I  instantly 
ordered  him  out  of  my  presence.  He  had  the 
impudence  to  come  to  Wyanoke  last  night — 
knowing  that  I  was  there,  and  that  I  was  acting 
as  hostess.  It  was  nearly  as  bad  as  if  I  had 
been  entertaining  at  Pocahontas.  He  made  it 
worse  by  asking  me  if  I  had  read  my  father's 
letter,  and  if  I  did  not  now  realize  the  necessity 
of  marrying  him  in  order  that  I  might  ally 
myself  with  a  good  Virginia  family.  He  had 
just  finished  that  insolence  when  you  made  your 
little  speech,  not  only  calling  him  a  fool  by 
plain  implication,  but  proving  him  to  be  one. 
That's  why  I  thanked  you,  as  I  did." 

"Yes,  I  quite  understood  that,"  answered 

450 


SOON  IN  THE  MORNING 

Arthur.  "  Let  us  run  our  horses  for  a  bit.  I 
have  a  fancy  to  do  that." 

Dorothy  understood.  She  joined  him  in  a 
quarter  mile  stretch,  and  then  he  suddenly 
reined  in  his  horse  and  faced  her. 

"  It  was  right  here,  Dorothy,  after  a  run  like 
that,"  he  said,  "  that  you  told  me  I  might  call 
you  Dorothy.  Now  I  ask  you  to  let  me  call 
you  Wife." 

The  girl  hesitated.    Presently  she  said : 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  be  perfectly 
true  with  you.  I  don't  know  whether  I  had 
thought  of  this  or  not,  at  any  rate  I  have  tried 
not  to  think  of  it." 

"  But  now  that  I  have  forced  the  thought 
upon  you,  Dorothy  ?    Is  it  yes,  or  no  ?  " 

Again  the  girl  paused  in  thought  before  an- 
swering. Her  dogs,  seeing  that  she  was  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  them,  broke  away  in  pursuit 
of  a  hare.  She  suddenly  recovered  her  self- 
possession.  She  whistled  through  her  fingers 
to  recall  the  hounds,  and  when  they  returned, 
crouching  to  receive  the  punishment  they  knew 
they  deserved,  she  bade  them  go  to  heel,  add- 
ing :  "  You're  naughty  fellows,  but  you 
haven't  been  kept  under  control,  and  so  I  for- 
give you."    Then,  turning  to  Arthur  she  said, 

"  Yes,  Master." 


DOROTHr  SOUTH 


On  their  return  to  the  house  Arthur  was 
mindful  of  his  duty  to  Aunt  Polly,  guardian 
of  the  person  of  Dorothy  South,  and,  as  such 
endowed  with  authority  to  approve  or  forbid 
any  marriage  to  which  that  eighteen  year  old 
young  person  might  be  inclined,  before  attain- 
ing her  twenty  first  year. 

"Aunt  Polly!"  he  said  abruptly,  "I  want 
your  permission  to  marry  Dorothy." 

"  Why  of  course,  Arthur,"  she  replied. 
"  That  is  what  I  have  intended  all  the  time." 


It  was  four  years  later,  in  June,  1865. 
Arthur  and  Dorothy — ^with  an  abiding  con- 
sciousness of  duty  faithfully  done — stood  to- 
gether in  the  porch  at  Wyanoke.  The  war  was 
over.  Virginia  was  ruined  beyond  recovery. 
All  of  evil  that  Arthur  had  foreseen,  had  been 
accomplished.  "  But  the  good  has  also  come," 
said  Dorothy  as  they  talked.  "  Slavery  is  at  an 
end.  You,  Arthur,  are  free.  You  may  again 
address  yourself  to  your  work  in  the  world 
without  the  embarrassment  of  other  duty. 
Shall  we  go  back  to  New  York  ?  " 

452 


-Kioao 


si 


^ 


SOON  IN  THE  MORNING 

"  No,  Dorothy.  My  work  in  life  lies  in  the 
cradle  in  the  chamber  there,  where  our  two 
children  sleep." 

"Thank  you!"  said  Dorothy,  and  silence 
fell  for  a  time. 

Presently  Dorothy  added : 

"  And  my  mother's  work  is  done.  It  con- 
soles me  for  all,  when  I  remember  that  she  lies 
where  she  fell,  a  martyr.  The  stone  under 
which  she  sleeps  is  a  rude  one,  but  soldier  hands 
have  lovingly  carved  upon  it  the  words: 

'  MADAME  LE  SUD 
The  Angel  of  the  Battlefield.'  " 

Then  Dorothy  whistled,  and  Dick  came  in 
response. 

"  Bring  the  horses  at  six  o'clock  tomorrow, 
Dick,  your  master  and  I  are  going  to  ride  soon 
in  the  morning." 


the  end 


453 


THE  GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 
ILLUSTRATED  EDITIONS 
OF  FAMOUS  BOOKS  a  a  a 


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With  illustrations  by  Clare  Angell. 

THE  PRICE  OF  FREEDOM 

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CASTLE  CRANEYCROW.       THE  SHERRODS. 

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picted with  a  naivete  and  satire,  tempered  with  sym- 
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THE  PILLAR  OF  LIGHT 

**  Breathless  interest  is  a  hackneyed  phrase,  but  every 
reader  of  *  The  Pillar  of  Light  *  who  has  red  blood  in 
his  or  her  veins,  will  agree  that  the  trite  saying  applies  to 
the  attention  which  this  story  commands. — New  York  Sun, 

THE  WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 

**  Here  is  a  story  filled  with  the  swing  of  adventure. 
There  are  no  dragging  intervals  in  this  volume  :  from  the 
moment  of  their  landing  on  the  island  until  the  rescuing 
crew  find  them  there,  there  is  not  a  dull  moment  for  the 
young  people — nor  for  the  reader  either.*' — New  Tork 
Times, 

THE  KING  OF  DIAMONDS 

**  Verily,  Mr,  Tracy  is  a  prince  of  story-tellers.  His 
charm  is  a  little  hard  to  describe,  but  it  is  as  definite  as 
that  of  a  rainbow.  The  reader  is  carried  along  by  the 
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VIA  CRUCIS  :  A  Romance  of  the  Second  Crusade. 

Illustrated  by  Louis  Loeb. 

Mr.  Crawford  has  manifestly  brought  his  best  qualities 

08  a  student  of  history,  and  his  finest  resources  as  a  master 

af  an  original  and  picturesque  style,  to  bear  upon  this  story. 

MR.  ISAACS  :  A  Tale  of  Modern  India. 

Under  an  unpretentious  title  we  have  here  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  novels  that  has  been  given  to  the  world. 

THE  HEART  OF  ROME. 

The  legend  of  a  buried  treasure  under  the  walls  of  the 
palace  of  Conti,  known  to  but  few,  provides  the  frame- 
work for  many  exciting  incidents. 

SARACINESCA 

A  graphic  picture  of  Roman  society  in  the  last  days  of 
the  Pope's  temporal  power. 

SANT'  ILARIO  ;  A  Sequel  to  Saracinesca. 

A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story,  fulfilling  every 
requirement   of  artistic    fiction. 

IN  THE  PALACE  OF  THE  KING:  A  Love  Story 

of  Old  Madrid.     Illustrated. 
The  imaginative  richness,  the  marvellous  ingenuity  of 
plot,  and  the  charm  of  romantic  environment,  rank  this 
novel  among  the  great  creations. 

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THE   CALL  OF   THE  WILD 

With  lUvstndona  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and  Charles  Liyingiton  Ball 
Decorated  by  Charles  Edward  Hopper 

**A  tale  that  is  literature  ...  the  unity  of  its  plan 
and  the  firmness  of  its  execution  are  equally  remarkable 
...  a  story  that  grips  the  reader  deeply.     It  is  art,  it 

is  literature It  stands  apart,  far  apart  with 

so  much  skill,  so  much  reasonableness,  so  much  convinc- 
ing logic.** — N,  T,  Mail  and  Express, 

**A  big  story  in  sober  English,  and  with  thorough  art 
in  the  construction  ...  a  wonderfully  perfect  bit  of 
work.  The  dog  adventures  are  as  exciting  as  any  man*s 
exploits  could  be,  and  Mr.  London's  workmanship  is 
wholly  satisfying.** — The  New  York  Sun. 

'*  The  story  is  one  that  will  stir  the  blood  of  every 
lover  of  a  life  in  its  closest  relation  to  nature.  Whoever 
loves  the  open  or  adventure  for  its  own  sake  will  find 
*The  Call  of  the  Wild*  a  most  fascinating  book.** — 
The  Brtoklyn  Eagle. 

THE   SEA   WOLF 

Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward 

"This  story  surely  has  the  pure  Stevenson  ring,  the 
adventurous  glamour,  the  vertebrate  stoicism.  *Tis  surely 
the  story  of  the  making  of  a  man,  the  sculptor  being 
Captain  Larsen,  and  the  clay,  the  ease-loving,  well-to-do, 
half-drowned  man,  to  all  appearances  his  helpless  prey.  *  * 
—  Critic. 

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